


The Robber Barons

by alernun, ginogollum



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Alcoholism, Arms Dealing, Blackmail, Drug Use, ESL and Dialect Speech, Experimental Narrative Voice, F/M, Feminist Thespians, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Illusionism, M/M, Non-Powered Regency AU, Organized Crime, Period Appropriate Homophobia, Period Appropriate Racism and Anti-semitism, References to Past Child Abuse, Sexual Situations, Solicitation, Talk of Past Genocide, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3306011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alernun/pseuds/alernun, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginogollum/pseuds/ginogollum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1811. Kurt Marko, desperate and in debt, blackmails Charles into stealing a diamond necklace from a notorious weapons dealer, using his knowledge of his stepson's homosexuality as leverage. The job sends Charles down a path of crime, tragedy, and ardent passion, into the arms of an ambitious railroad tycoon from Berlin with a lot to prove.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Plan

**Author's Note:**

> “/.../" indicates thought  
> Italics indicate writing or flashback  
> “Gaudete” means "rejoice" in Latin.  
> "Wer bist du" means ''Who are you'' in German  
> ''su hermano' means ''your brother'' in Spanish;  
> For more information on Russia's attempt to cleanse Poland of it's Jews during the 19th century, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_the_Jews_in_Poland#Pogroms_within_the_Russian_Empire.
> 
> Alernun (author): Shout out to ginogollum and her amazing amazing art. I was so enchanted by her period scenes that I was inspired to write historical fiction for the first time in years! Couldn't have done this without her constant feedback and encouragement.

**PART ONE: THE PLAN**

**Xavier Estate  
** **Paddington Village, England**  
**December the 22nd, 1811**  
**7:45pm**

[](http://postimg.org/image/nlpen8pon/full/)  
[image hosting](http://postimage.org/index.php?lang=italian)  
  


  _December the 22nd  
Evening Post _

Kurt Marko read the missive for an umpteenth time and had to physically restrain himself from setting it alight with the candelabra before taking a long draut of sherry. The internal voice that had not stopped racing since the morning mail came asked him again, this time dulled with the scuff of exhaustion: How had it come to this?

/Step by step, Kurt. Step by step./

And wasn't that the truth. There was a time when he'd been good at this. A prodigy. He could make money out of nothing and then turn that little into a lot in a single day. Something in him just knew which West Indies voyage would come back with saffron to the gills, or which designer to take a chance on. It was that mind for investment that helped him claw his way up out of a clerkship into the arms of the Xavier widow, and into the sphere of a reluctantly accepting British nobility.

If peerage was water, then money was blood, his merchant background be damned. For a decade or so he'd had his Golden Age, in the mansion in the country with the easily kept wife and the sniveling stepchildren. The carriage and the tenants and the ballroom romps. The tips of the hat and the booty.

But then Charles came of age, and inherited the tenancy income, and all of a sudden his investment capital actually mattered. With wealth and position came his ingenuity's enemy: crippling pressure. Expectations. He began making bad calls. And then Napoleon scared the hell out of all of Europe, making the whole business even more unpredictable, turning industry upside down and disrupting his overseas investments. He started digging holes he couldn't get out of. He carried debt, robbed Peter to pay Paul, and then Schmidt, that foreign oaf, knocked on his door last fall with a huge chunk of cash to invest and a host of distractions, leaving Marko alone with the proverbial piggy bank.

He'd stolen half, plain and simple. The other half he'd gambled to get in on the ground floor of a chemical weapons patent, and lost it all after the factory exploded.

“Sir?”

The butler cut through the debris of his thoughts. “Yes, McCoy, what is it?”

“Young Master's here. Should I have the kitchen bring up tea?”

“No, he can bloody well get some himself if he's thirsty. And don't wake Sharon, either. She's had...a tiring week.”

McCoy very professionally did not register shock at the crude vernacular. “Very well, Sir. Just drinks at the side bar then. I'll send him in.”

By the time Charles padded into the parlor, fussing about like a dandy with half-melted snowflakes in his hair, Kurt was more than half-way drunk. This never boded well.

“Kurt whatever is the matter?” Asked the boy-/he's 26, Kurt. Hardly a boy anymore/ no dammit, he was a boy, with his whole damn life figured out for him, handed to him on a silver platter like it had been handed to every Xavier for 15 generations...his fingers twitched around his sherry glass. It was beginning. The old rage fueled by spirits and this blue eyed Puck who was now appraising him like a disapproving uncle despite the age gap.

“Well are you going to answer me or just sit there like a gargoyle? I had to take the express carriage from Oxford and it was not a comfortable journey.”

“Sit down, Charles.”

“Alright...” Charles first sauntered over to the bar and poured himself a brandy. Kurt's mood darkened further. Sharon was always fond of commenting that Charles's father had been partial to brandy. /Him and every landed gentleman in the area, you dumb cow./ “Now what is it? What was so urgent? I planned on coming home Friday for Christmas, why did you need me today?”

“We have a problem.”

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. We try so hard not to share much of anything, let alone our problems. Are you sure this isn't just your problem?”

The glass in his hand almost shattered. Control, Kurt. Control. “Yes, quite sure. Do you remember the man we went to the Touton club with in London last fall? Mr. Schmidt?”

The boy nodded. He'd always had a good memory. Too good, at times. “Yes that dreadfully frightening Hanoverian. I had the feeling that whole evening he was going to pull something awful. Why, what's he done?”

“Other than play both sides during these problems with the French, nothing much out of order.” Kurt answered. “No Charles, it's what I've done. I've lost his money, I'm sorry to say. And if we don't get it back it will be the worse for us.”

“Hmmm. Well, I'm sorry to remind you, but I'm not an investment banker, and I've got 10,000 a year. So, as I said. Your pro-OOFH.”

It had happened so quickly. He'd seen red and then his body, that large and cumbersome instrument, had moved, and the glass and the fist had made contact with the pink of Charles's chilled cheekbone. And then the red, the blood was real, across his face. Across his own fist. No going back now. No more pleasantries. The boy hadn't moved, except to hold his injured cheek and remove bits of broken glass absently from his lap, but he could see it; the old tremble across his shoulders. The one that had gotten the precocious, fatherless child to shut up and do as he was told for all these years, no exceptions.

“Our problem, Charles. Because I'll make it yours if you don't cooperate. I owe this man 25,000, and he's no British bank. When he says he will make restitution, he's not talking about debtor's prison, which I'm sure you wouldn't mind for your old step daddy. He speaks of a more primal vengeance. Whatever you may think of me, Boy, know that this man is an animal, and you are going to be my key to feeding him.”

Charles glared. He'd given up on dabbing at the blood. His whole body was taught like a bow string. “How do you mean?”

Kurt answered almost too quickly. The idea had been brewing all day, and it was a relief to get it out into the open. “Do you still do your fancy parlor tricks?”

“...Yes. I still study the illusionary arts.”

“Splendid.” Kurt reached into the pocket of his suit, and pulled out a decorative invitation. “We've been invited to Schmidt's gauche New Years money grab ball. Word is his wife, Ms. Frost, has an unparalleled collection of fine jewels. You will go to this ball, and you will knick the most expensive rock you can find during one of your shows. Then come straight here, and I'll contact the fence. We'll pay the ape's debt with his own wife's trinkets and to hell with him. It's poetic, I think.”

“...What!? You must be unhinged, to think I'd go along with such a thing.” Smartly, he stood and put the chair between them as he said this. “No, I'm not a scared nine year old any more Kurt. I'm going back to Oxford first thing in the morning and I don't want to hear another word about this. A jewel heist. Really-”

“Sit down you goddamn pillow biter. Sit down now, or all of London will be using those words in relation to you by tomorrow's afternoon post.”

Charles, who had been halfway out the door, froze like he'd been struck again. After a long few seconds, he turned back around, movements mechanical, pale as death. He did not sit, but he did not leave. Kurt elaborated.

“That's what I thought. Let's talk about problems that aren't mine, Charles. Let's talk about that choir boy I caught halfway up your arse last year, what was his name-Hiddleston, I think, Thomas Hiddleston.”

The boy visibly flinched at the name. He seemed to get ten years older in a single minute at it's mention.

“You're not the only one who remembers things, Charles. And you're damned lucky he didn't black mail you-”

“He would never.” Charles said quietly.

“But everyone has their price.” Kurt stood up and invaded Charles's space, using his height to his advantage. “I may be stone broke but I bet I have enough to turn a fairy against another fairy. And even if I don't. All it would take would be an obscene letter scrawled in his name, naming you. That's all it takes, in your circles, to ruin a man. You can kiss your teaching job goodbye, you're a naturalist for Christ sakes, and there innt nothing natural about what you do. Forget your magic shows. No one would let you within a mile of their front doors. And this is you getting off easy.”

He was so close to the boy now that he could feel Charles's panic-breathing against his face, could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest. /Run, rabbit, run./ “Could be they have a trial. Could be they call witnesses. And there I'd be, a reluctant but solemn witness for the prosecution, doing his sworn duty for England by naming you a fekking queer. What do you think, Charles? Could you survive two years hard labor? Could Sharon survive the shame, do you think? Old bird's a few years shy of it as it is, the way her liver's going, I'd say this'd finish her. No matter, though. There's lot's of other queers in prison, I hear. Good company. Your arsehole would be doing most of the work, but life can't all be fun and games-”

“Alright.” Charles rasped. “Alright. Stop. Just stop....please.” A long, shuddering breath. When he finally collected himself enough to meet Kurt's eyes, they were wet. “I'll do what you ask. But I'll do it my way. Leave me to it, do you hear? And stay away from the ball. You've already made everything so much worse.”

Kurt smirked, and backed away. “Deal. I'm not in for parties much anyway. Think I'll go moose hunting. Joyeux Anée and all that, Pup. Now get the hell out of my sight.”

The sound of Charles's heavy trudge up the steps was the best moment of Kurt Marko's day.

* * *

**The Next Day...**

“My boy. My beautiful boy...what day is it? S'not Yuletide yet...I've got such a headache. Would you be a dear and hand me my glass? I just need a sip and I'll be right as rain.”

Charles sat at the edge of his mother's bed, and handed her the long-ago cooled Hot Toddy without comment. He'd meant to leave as soon as possible, shaken as he was by his arrival, but Kurt had gone out on some all-day errand and the snow was coming down hard. Then his mother's bell rang downstairs, and he'd gotten an unexpected lump in his throat when he realized it had been nearly a year since he'd spoken to her, so averse was he to the estate.

He'd decided to bring up her luncheon, Marko be damned.

“No mum, not yet. But I'm afraid I can't stay for the annual dinner. I've got some illusionist work to do in London and I'd like to check in on Raven.”

The real illusion, he thought privately, was that he managed to sound perfectly calm. It was a small mercy, and the only one he could afford her.

She pretended to be crestfallen, but deep down he knew that he, with his father's eyes and his constant bruises, was a reminder of what she had lost, and distasteful proof of her present mistakes.

“Oh...that's a shame. We love having you here.” At this, she reached up and ran a shaky hand across his swollen cheekbone. “What happened there, darling?”

“I slipped on some ice.” He supplied, and managed a smile.

“Because if Kurt's hit you again, y-you can't take him too seriously. He just gets in these tempers, but he loves you. I know he does-”

“Mother.” He interrupted, a slightly harder edge to his voice, sharpened by the involuntary mental slide show of broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, myriad scar tissue, and the never-quite-right-again nose. He smoothed her disheveled blonde hair, and fluffed her pillow. “I slipped on some ice.”

“Well....” she practically whispered, draining her tepid drink in one swig. “You need to be more careful. I worry, you know. About both of you-yes even Raven, though I know I'm not supposed to care. I do care...” She was working herself into a state, tears already building at the corners of her eyes, making her face puffier and redder than usual. “It's a horrid thing for society to ask of me, to wash my hands of my own child. I don't care what she's done...I miss my family.”

The lump in his throat returned for a brief moment. He leaned forward and embraced her. “I know, Mother.” But he stopped just shy of saying “So do I,” for his family portrait did not match hers anymore. She had run from the pain of Brian's death and retreated on the rebound. A dark, cruel part of him thought she was a coward, but then, with Damocles's Sword hanging above his head from Marko's slim watch chain, who was he to judge? “Don't worry, I'll send your love. Maybe one day, if you feel...well enough, to visit London, we'll all have a meal and catch up.”

“Yes...” Sharon muttered, thin fingers gripping her empty glass in growing anxiety, adjacent soup untouched. “I really do feel under the weather lately.”

 

Later, as his carriage wended its way through the sleet-slick streets of Paddington, his mind preyed upon him. He thought of Thomas, lost to the rank and file of the army, unable, with this damned war, even to get a Christmas furlough and unlikely to want to see Charles if he did, so full of shame for his nature was he. He kicked himself for not realizing that Kurt would resort to this, a fresh new low, and bit down self loathing at his own rolling over and taking of it. He considered his stepfather's rough plan, not even a plan really, more like the half-mad ravings of a man drowning in spite, who saw him as a way to buy time before his real solution occurred to him.

“It's a strange thing...” he said to himself, watching his breath fog the grey Vermier of the carriage window. “To know in your heart the mind of your enemy. That man wants me dead.”

But something in him...the same something that disdained his mother as well as loved her, that had reached out and took Thomas because he wanted him, that longed to fight Kurt when he pounced, told him this:

/So what. I will succeed. I will do this thing, and walk away triumphant./

“TERMINAL STOP. TERMINAL STOP. OUT SIR AND BE ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS.”

Charles tipped the driver despite his brusqueness, and hailed a hansom cab in the gloaming. He endured the chatty baroness and her insipid offspring's conversation for the half hour it took them to get to Drury Lane, then absented himself without a backward glance. The ticket window was already burdened with a considerable queue, and while he waited he read the newly-pasted poster on the wall:

 

[](http://postimg.org/image/bgpdhf0f9/full/)  
[host image](http://postimage.org/index.php?lang=italian)  
  


 

/Oh for Pete's sake./ Charles thought, and, when his turn finally came, bought the “Gentleman's Ticket,” which entitled him to one of the renovated opera boxes as well as a “tantalizing back stage interview with the Lady herself.”

He found his place inside. The new theatre was impressive. They had built a third balcony while somehow still retaining the intimate nature of the space. The lighting was strategic and cozy, and for this performance, paper lanterns hung from the painted woodwork, casting an eerie yellow glow over the crowd below him. The buildings painted in the backdrop had a foreign feel to them-yet another one of the Sisterhood's revolutionary ideas, to set plays in dissonant exotic settings, thereby underscoring the material's timelessness.

“Raven whatever is humanity to do with you?” Charles said to himself with a half-smile as the lights dimmed, indicating that the show was about to begin.

Despite his discomfort with her often risqué material and his real fears that something awful would happen to her eventually, in this crowded and ruthless city where she enjoyed no society connections, he was extremely proud of his little sister. She had stood up to Kurt early and often. Although she had no hope of fighting him, she was a master of concealment, hiding herself in coat racks, cellars, and even the privy once to escape his wrath. She ran away the first chance she could and took only what money was her own, leaving Charles a secret note explaining her plans to join the new all women's theater company. At first, he'd feared the worst. He dressed as a vagabond and slummed it for weeks looking for her, half-certain she'd turn up in a brothel or the morgue. When he finally did find this Sisterhood she raved about performing small West End productions, they'd quarrelled terribly, for he had not believed in her and kept citing her ruined reputation.

Then the Sisterhood blew up, first for it's counter-cultural novelty and then just because they were plain extraordinary. Raven became it's de-facto leader and one of the most sought-after character actresses in London. She was currently in talks with the patent theatres to obtain the right to portray dramatic characters and he knew she would succeed in this, as she seemed to land on her feet in all of her endeavors.

Her first appearance was breathtaking and off-putting all at once. Charles settled in as she strode out, head high with fierce eyes to join the tattooed Oriental woman portraying Caldonice center stage. Both women were clad scandalously in sheer all white kimono-like garments, a marriage of East and West, thighs visible and bodies free for mobility.

“My dear Lysistrata, just what is this matter you've summoned us women to consider. What's up? Something big?”

“Very big.”

“Is it stout too?”

Raven smiled and looked out at the audience, utterly fearless. “Yes, indeed -- both big and stout.”

“What? And the women still haven't come?

“It's not what you suppose; they'd come soon enough for that.”

Charles laughed in spite of 26 years of breeding telling him to do otherwise, and forgot about his troubles in the performance. He forced himself, however, to forgo the magic of immersion during the last five minutes of the chorus's epilogue in order to beat the crowd, and made his way down the narrow wooden stairs below stage right into the cellar system, which served as the production team's temporary living space. He managed to get into the torch-lit warren of makeshift changing stations, wardrobe racks, and dubious bedsits without incident but was soon stopped by a large man in a severe yellow tailcoat that barely spanned his prodigiously muscled chest. His hands too, were bizarre, for his knuckles were unnaturally gnarled with what looked to be bone spurs, and gave off the impression of old tree branches. His expression was not friendly.

“That's far enough, Bub. No one likes an over eager john. Let's see your ticket.”

Charles blanched. “Oh goodness no I'm not a john...here, I think you'll see this is all in order...”

He handed over his ticket stub, at which the man spared a passing glance, unimpressed. “Rav...the Lady Mystique is my sister, and I have an urgent need to speak to her in private.”

At this, the man laughed. “Ohhh your sister, huh? That's a good one. And I'd have to be Lord Byron to swallow a fever dream like that. What did you think, you'd spend your tea and crumpets money on a little romp with a class act? You're not bad looking, I'll give you that, but something tells me those breeches of yours aren't too tight for a reason-”

“Logan, down boy, who're ya teasin' nigh?”

The pair turned to see Caldonice leaning lazily against the wall, pink with the exertion of the bow-out. Charles tipped his hat, and pointed to the ticket in Logan's hand.

“Ah, Caldonice, I mean Candice, if I remember correctly, I was just telling this chap here that I have a need to speak with my-”

“Yer sister, yeah, I 'eard, goodness yerrah peach. I think even if yeh were 'er real brother she wouldn' mind givin' it to you, would ya, darling? OI, MYSTIQUE?”

To his immense relief, Charles heard Raven's throaty alto rise up from the gathering din around the bend. “I'm coming, Christ Blink, keep your knickers on.”

Charles, in a desperate attempt to redirect further conversation, voiced his question. “Blink?”

Blink nodded, and pointed to the tattoos around her right eye. “Tha's right, these'r real. Prison's a tough racket. Blink the Chink's wot they calls me down 'ere, but I don' mind so's long as they keep payin' me, eh?”

“I...suppose there's some symbiosis to that arrangement, yes-Oh, Raven. Thank GOD you're here!”

Almost the minute he caught sight of her face, he stepped forward and embraced her, surprising even himself with the strength of his emotion. He could feel the bouncer's strong hands trying to pull him off, but they paused, confused and unsure of their duty, when Raven's arms came up to hug him back.

“Thank God...” he kept saying into the crook of her neck, feeling half mad and fighting back an overwhelming sense of panic, relief, and fear he hadn't realized he was carrying so heavily. He felt incredibly grateful to her when she stroked his hair and responded,“Woah there, Charlie. Everything's ok. Back off you sods, he's my brother for real! Yeah I don't tell you everything and I wonder why, with friends like I have! You'd devour him with the mutton, wouldn't you?”

“I would.” Blink dead-panned, and then everyone, including Charles, was laughing once more.

After a round of introductions, Raven and Blink changed into street clothes and then blessedly played truant from the gaggle of fans who had paid to see them, using the bouncer (Logan's) tendency to clear a path in his wake to sneak out the Brydge street side of the theatre. A quarter of an hour later saw Charles opposite the ladies on a rough-hewn bench at the aptly named “Hangman's Noose” pub waiting for a pint, and casting sidelong glances at Logan, who was standing silent guard at their private booth's entrance.

“You were both very good tonight.” He began obliquely, feeling drained to the core and out of sorts that he had to begin this conversation with an audience not related to him. “Truly. I'd always viewed that play as veritable pornography, but your production revealed something else. I left feeling positively pacifistic, but I wonder if I could make a request now that will be taken as decidedly hostile ...can Raven and I have a moment alone?”

Blink snorted in a very unladylike way. “D'awww. Shy li'le peach!”

Raven's eyes narrowed slightly. “I don't go anywhere alone in this city and neither should you with that poncey outfit on. You'll be robbed before dawn. Blink's a true sister and there isn't anything you can't say in front of her that you can in front of me.”

Blink beamed and accepted one of the pints that Logan had carried to the table. “And I don't care.” He grunted, before retaking his post at the door.

“...He's good too.” Raven amended.

Charles took a fortifying swig of beer, then quickly relayed Kurt's predicament and plan, focusing on the wood grain of the table and Raven's polished royal blue fingernails against her flagon.

“Hah! And did you tell him where to stick it? Or where your giraffes stick it? I don't know I hope you made a naturalism joke, he's such an ape.”

“I can't.” he answered. The wood grain began to sway under his unblinking scrutiny.

“Why ever not? Haven't you grown a prick since getting that post at Oxford? Christ we're practically neighbors now, the infamous Xaviers-you don’t even live there anymore-”

“I can't because he found out about Thomas and me and he's going to do me in if I don't go through with it.” Charles blurted, then wiped a hand across his face and finished his drink in one gulp.

There was a beat of silence. Then Blink let out a huff of air. “I may've never seen the innards of a school but I'm guessin Thomas weren't only a friend. Or 'e were a good friend, if ya catch me drift.”

“Real astute of you, Blink.” Raven said quietly, and elbowed the other girl in the ribs. “Oh Charles. He's a right crusty old bastard for using that against you when all of London knows he's got a black book full of mistresses!”

“Yes, well.” Charles mumbled, and stole a sip from her flagon. “Bastard or no, I'm guilty as sin of what he says, and if it goes to trial...I just...I couldn't do that to Tom. They'd shoot him for the accusation alone, the way the war's going, or he'd shoot himself, more likely. It's not fair to him, not when he never made me any promises. Not when what happened was so...inconsequential.”

Raven eyed him with the parody of their mothers' milky stare-fierce and sharp where Sharon's was listless. He squirmed under those eyes. “So are you thinking you're going to do it? You're going to steal for that man? Could you even do it?”

Charles inclined his head slowly. “That's just it-I believe I could, strictly speaking. Rather easily. My sleight of hand work is exceptional and I have the ball invitation. I've been thinking about it nonstop since yesterday, and the thought of stealing from a bloody arms dealer is far less abhorrent to me than putting Tom's life in danger. But I'm scared, Raven. I...I don't know if I could manage it alone.”

Out of nowhere, Logan huffed a laugh and turned to face them from across the room. “If you're serious about this Bub, I sure's hell hope you don't do it alone. Sure maybe you'll get the jewelry, but keeping it? Avoiding suspicion? Fencing a hot piece? That's the pro boxer's ring. Soft handed muffin like you is in over his head. By the way...”

He walked over, plopped down next to Charles in the booth, and gave him a heavy pat on the back that nearly knocked the wind out of him. “I don't care who you bugger or who's buggering you. I'm a 'mind your own' kinda bloke, and to tell you the truth I far prefer the idea of Mystique's queer old gentleman brother than I do to some richie rich who looks like Parisian royalty or some shite trying to bugger her.”

Raven guffawed and reached across the table to caress Logan's deformed hands. “My darling, you have reached the heights of romance, truly.”

“Well that's a relief.” Charles said, and meant it.

“Point is,” Logan continued. “This step father of yours sounds dangerous. And no love's lost on this Schmidt fellow. I say, go through with it, but pick your mark careful-like. 25,000 is a lot, but there are pieces worth more. Make a profit, appease the ape, and then you should probably disappear for a while. Who knows when he'll try to trot out the gross indecency charge again. Unless you just want to skip all that and I can go down there now and kick his teeth in.”

Blink blinked. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, tha's the most I've 'eard ya talk all season. Yeh sure yer arright? Not got a touch a the typhoid?”

“No,” Raven responded for him, and rubbed his hands. Charles felt something in his chest clench. His sister was in love...when had that happened? It had been a long time, too long, since he'd sought her out. “Just a little arrow wound from a wee babe, isn't that right, darling?”

“Eck, spare me, have mercy!” Blink said, and stuck her finger down her throat. “Anyway, I know yerra cozy threesome but I can' resist a sob story. 'Sme Irish blood, I suspec'. Just so happens I know the wifey's lady's maid. Mrs. Frost hassa bit of a reputation amongst the help, and it innt good. She'll probably turn up at the Christmas fête tomorrow. If there's money to be made, she'll be game.”

Charles turned back towards Logan. “My stepfather wanted to arrange the fence, but if you had any connections in that regard, I'm sure I could convince him to use your man. It further removes him from the crime, and to be honest I don't think he holds out much hope that this will work anyway. He was half in his cups when he proposed it, so he shouldn't be too hard to put off. We could all split the extra money.”

Logan nodded. “I know a guy. But let's wait and see what the lady's maid says. If she's in, this'll be a whole helluva lot easier.”

Raven grinned and clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Looks like you're spending Christmas with us, dear brother. I'll have wardrobe set you up with a costume, don't you worry.”

Charles swallowed hard. “A costume?”

“Quite right!” she said, and handed Logan some coins, who left to pay the bill. “All us theater people get together at the Black Bird Stage for a masquerade Christmas Eve. It's tradition.”

“Thanks but can't I just hole up in your rooms? I don't feel much like a party. At least not until the obligatory scene of the crime...”

“I won't hear of it.” Raven said firmly.

“Neevah will I! Don't yeh know theater parties are a dandy's playground? I thoughtchyah lived in this city!”

“Blink's right.” Raven rejoined. “Might as well commit the crime you're being punished for. And anyway, I'll wager it's been ages since you've had a bit of fun.”

With that, Charles could not justly argue.

* * *

Gaudete, Gaudete!  
I am absinthe  
and I have found a host.  
His soft veins favor  
my anise flavored chaos.  
His limbs twitch,  
as I pillage them, and leave him with  
the sensation of tulips, of dragon's tongues  
tonguing his exposed flesh.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe.  
My host shall know the meaning of the wilderness  
for he hides tonight behind it's mask.  
His sister gave him a rat's face to wear.  
His culture gave him his over cloak of shame.  
Only his saphirre eyes tell the story of him,  
of me.  
He skirts the edges of the party,  
holding me in a cheap stone cup like a lifeline.  
He knows, as I know, that poisons are often  
Secret Elixirs.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe,  
and he is falling fast into my arms.  
The music is a profane amalgamation,  
of Irish drummers, French carolers, and English bawds.  
He doesn't want to feel it seize his body,  
but it, I, they, do.  
And then the rat has seen the cat.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe,  
and I, he, we, will not be ignored.  
The rat surveys the cat,  
and dreams of being eaten.  
He reaches out and paws black velvet.  
He says some politeness to cover it--  
But the cat paws back.  
They are dancing.

Gaudete Gaudete!  
I am absinthe,  
and we are being had in the rafters  
still in our mask.  
The cat's gray eyes are looking for something.  
The rat opens wider, and answers with his nature.  
But cats will indulge in their curiosity;  
“Perfektion, Wer bist du-wer bist du?“

Gaudete Gaudete...  
I am Charles.  
I shake my head and choose not to answer.  
I let him satisfy everything but his desire to know.  
My body glows.  
...and then I watch him go.  
Only then do I remove the rat's face,  
and weep softly for the over cloak  
I must wrap around me tighter in it's place.

 

[](http://postimg.org/image/tm9ek6ioj/full/)  
[free image hosting](http://postimage.org/index.php?lang=italian)  
  


[](http://postimg.org/image/y0npxetan/full/)

**Monday, December the 30th 1811  
** **8:15 in the morning**  
**My Rooms in Whitechapel**

_It's been three weeks since I arrived in London. I planned to return to Berlin a fortnight ago, having completed the agreed-upon collaboration with Mr. Blenkinshop on his locomotive engine, but John's taken a liking to me and begged me to stay until after the holidays. I reminded him that for me, the holidays had already passed, and I, a stranger in a strange land, had lit my Hanukkah candles in gloomy solitude. At that the man showed genuine remorse, and took it upon himself to take me under his wing, so to speak, so that I might make society friends and forge connections._  


_My general temperament rebels against these efforts, but in truth, I am eager to expand my business overseas, and continue learning about new ways of manipulating metal. The English, though a fussy and prim-mannered lot who never say what they mean, are on the verge of something great here. There is real innovation happening, and I would not be surprised if the end of the decade saw the entire Island run by steam and clockwork._  


_Furthermore, I can't deny that of late I have enjoyed some diverting activities, though I blush now, to put them in print. One chance meeting in the West End particularly has occupied my thoughts. John, ever the social butterfly, took me to some artist's Christmas masque. I was intrigued, Christmas always having seemed a somewhat Pagan and Druid parsing of traditions, and so I got into the spirit of things, even renting out a simple cat's mask from a local shop. I expected to do some drinking and oblige the plainer girls in a dance or two. The guild parties in Berlin are so austere that I didn't expect to meet anyone who shared my interests._  


_And yet, meet someone I did. How to describe him? My gift is not for words, but I shall try. He wore an ugly rodent's costume, but even this could not conceal his beauty. I am not one to climb the balconies, not even for those boys who stir my blood, but when he made his interest known, I felt...like I would do anything for him. He was bold and silent and vaguely desperate, but not for carnality, exactly. He seemed touch starved rather than love starved, and lonely for simple congress. When we found a quiet place, and I began to sate that hunger in him, his whole body warmed to me like a candle, impossibly delicate and right-feeling under my ministrations._  


_I had not planned on progressing as far as we did, especially considering his strange aversion to speech. I can count the amount of times I have entered another person on two hands, but even though it was mad, and too-fast, and I do not even know his name, I have become obsessed with the of memory it. Sometimes, I even dream-_

''Erik? ERIK! Open up man, my hansom got stuck in the mud and I nearly clubbed to death a couple of pickpockets on Dorset street just so I could beat the morning post!''

Erik swore in German under his breath, but replaced the quill in the ink well. He greatly disliked being interrupted in the early hours of the morning, for lately that was the only time of day that was entirely his own. But John Blenkinshop _did_ sound rather excited. Sure enough, no sooner had Erik cracked open the door than John rushed in, blowing on his hands for warmth, flamboyant blonde curls falling ludicrously every which way across his face. He was in his best tail coat and breeches, and his pockets bulged with haphazardly tied together paperwork.

''John whatever has you so put out?“ Erik asked, and was about to ring the concierge's bell for tea, but John shook his head violenty, spraying Erik in the face with melted snow.

''Never mind that, no time for that, not thirsty! And I'm not put out, I'm overjoyed! Here, take a look.''

Erik carefully unrolled the wad of papers John thrust into his hands, subtly shifting his body to block the desk that still featured his opened journal. A quick scan revealed the key to his colleague's elation.

''You got the patent.“

''WE got the patent, my friend! WE got the patent! Oh happy day, Christ above!“

Erik smirked in response and re-rolled the document before holding his stalk of sealing wax above his desk candle for a few moments. When it was sufficiently warm, he removed it, let it drip onto the paper crease, and used his signet ring to seal the documents neatly before returning them to the inventor.

''But really, was there ever any doubt? You know you were years ahead of anyone else with your rack and pinion design-''

John waved this away and collapsed atop the parlor's only ottoman, which was far too low to the ground for him to look like anything but an anthropomorphic frog. Still he sat, knobby knees pointing absurdly up to the ceiling. ''Oh well, one never knows. London's a sample tray of 'new' right now, and anyway we both know I'd never have been able to manage it so quickly without your help. I'm a dreamer with deep pockets but you, Erik, you're a genius who understands the cogs and springs in things. Do you comprehend what this could mean for us?“

Erik laughed in spite of himself. ''Not really, beyond the sum you've already paid me. Do enlighten.''

John grinned from ear to ear. ''We can finish her! Finally, we can finish the Salamanca!''

''Now wait just a minute, John. _You_ can finish her, but my apprentice can't run my shop in Berlin forever. Aleksander is a good blacksmith, but he's not-''

''Oh come now, Erik! Employ that vast imagination of yours in your own future! Blacksmiths are a tuppence a loaf, but engineers like you? You'd be wasted in the Holy Roman Empire.''

With his habitual quickness, John got up and actually grabbed Erik's lapels, a slightly manic look to his holly colored eyes. ''You belong here, man, where the change is happening. Think of how proud your mother would be, if she could see you now. Barley thirty, an immigrant twice over and a Jew, on the cutting edge of the commercial steam industry. You can make something of yourself here! England's progressed past prejudice. The stuffed shirts just need a little time to get used to New Money, Jew and gentile alike, but after a season or two I'm certain you'll be considered one of us.''

Erik tensed slightly at the mention of his long dead family. He'd told John his tale of woe after one too many pints and a few of the unusually perceptive man's probing questions. He hadn't been sure if he regretted it ever since. Still, he had to admit,...his late mother and John would probably be in agreement. ''It's a bit early in the day for penny-dreadful drama.'' Erik dead-panned. ''I'll think on it, will that satisfy you?''

John's face lit up once more. ''For now old chap, for now! Oh I can see it clear as day-'' He actually made an arch in the air with his hand. ''We'll cover this island in steel cobwebs! From London to Middleton to Leeds! Listen; be about your business now, but meet me in Trafalgar Square after luncheon. We're going to celebrate properly, in a way I think you'll enjoy.''

Erik was about to protest, but suddenly, like a shot of sulfur to an artery, his mind put forward the image of the smooth-limbed youth in the rat's mask, naked and gasping below him, arse tight and perfect around his prick in a way he'd never felt before, impossibly blue eyes rolling behind his costume and looking at anything but his face...

That fête, as he'd just penned, had been at John's urging, who knew a set of stage technicians through his inventing work.

''...Very well, very well.'' He heard himself saying, sure that the warmth he was feeling in his face was visible. ''See you after luncheon.''

 

He spent the morning answering correspondence and running errands on High Street. Aleksander would take care of the day to day at the shop just fine, but as for the books and the by-mail consultations, all of that fell to him. He was loathe to trust a solicitor with his accounts, as he'd heard one too many a story of skimming off the top, or condescending gentiles thinking they could talk down to, as John put it, ''New Money.'' Eventually, he finished his journal entry, even though the vivid memory of his anonymous tryst had embarrassed him and put him off self reflection for the day. It was a promise he continued to keep to his mother. He would never forget the way she clutched his small hand a mere half hour before formally making him an orphan, and charged him with the monumental task of remembering:

_''Erik, my Erik...you will not have an easy life. I think sometimes our people will always be running. Until the very end, when God reveals to all the world that we are chosen. Bear witness, my son, do you hear me? Bear witness to the hardships in your life, and be proud of who you are.''_

He had been eleven when she died of consumption, contracted on a steamer fleeing from war-wracked Poland. And she had been right. Life in the orphanage had not been easy. He'd had to grow up fast, get strong and remain that way, and use his brain. He thanked God every day for three things; his faith, his brain, and his hands. They were what plucked him from the rabble and placed him in the first ever Jewish Free School in Berlin. They were what started and maintained his business. They were what had moved John to write him in the first place, appealing to his expertise after reviewing the entries in a bridge design contest.

''But it's my prick that's defining me now.'' Erik muttered to himself ruefully in the hansom cab as it wended its way towards Trafalgar at half past five in the evening.

It wasn't hard to spot John, shuffling from foot to foot under Big Ben and fiddling with his top hat. He greeted him and let him lead them down a series of narrow alleyways. Gradually, crisp black coats and hats became homespun shirts, thick workman's boots, and soot-stained faces.

''John, what fix are you getting us into this time?''

John gave him the grin that usually meant he'd secretly planned on whores, opium, or a party full of loose actors. ''Now now don't be that way! You said you did a bit of boxing in Berlin, yeah?''

Erik nodded cautiously, and followed him through the back door of a nondescript brownstone. The corridor was pitch dark, but his nostrils were immediately assaulted with the smell of sweat, beer, and lamp wick. ''Not formally, but I had some ring-in-the-dirt work. Took some odds. ...Why?''

After a few yards the corridor opened up into a dimly lit lobby area packed to the gills with shirtless, bloody-faced men, inn girls, painted ladies, ticket rippers, and sloshed spectators. Makeshift bar stalls sprouted haphazardly every which way he looked, selling various home brewed spirits and street food.

''Well I thought maybe, if you were home sick, you know...'' John began, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary. ''We could take in a few rounds. Come on then, I've got ring side seats and I hardly ever use them. The missus doesn't approve.''

''Missuses don't tend to, no.'' Erik shouted over the crowd, thinking again of his blue eyed chimera.

''LAAYY'IEES ANNN' GEN'L'MEN! PUT YER HANNNNDS TOGETHUR FER LONDON'S VERY OWN LOGAN GUY NEESE, BETTER KNOWN TO YA ALL AS...THE WoOoOoOOOLVERINNNEEE!''

Erik passed the next hour happily. John, never able to sit in one place for too long, kept getting up to visit the refreshment stands and have a smoke. On one of his trips he'd found an old woman who was selling piping hot gluevine, and thoughtfully bought two pints for his friend. Erik drained them quicker than he meant and watched round after round of ''the Wolverine,'' a formidable fighter who only moderately relied on his mutated hands, utterly crush his challengers. Despite the rather palpable lack of tension, he found himself fascinated by the technical skill the fighters brought into the ropes, and remembered fondly his teenage gang back at the Free School. He, Magda, and a boy named only Toad, all orphans on scholarship, were always getting into scraps. But he couldn't pretend he had ever been this good.

''John, did you see that evasion?“ Erik asked. ''And I think that man's absorbed six head shots. He hasn't even taken a knee! John...?''

When his usually gregarious friend didn't answer he turned, and followed John's suddenly dark gaze across the ring. A slight gentleman in a flamboyant fur cape and charcoal gray suit had just begun to descend the stairs, trailed by a taller, more formidable man in an ostentatious bright red jacket and breeches. His goatee was not the fashion and his hair was incredibly thick-Erik was reminded of the cossacks that used to patrol their slum in Warsaw, and a chill went down his spine. Still, despite the man in red's eye-catching appearance, it was plain that the other fellow, with the mean shifty eyes, was the 'man in charge.'

''You see those two, over there?“ John finally said.

''Yes, they stand out don't they?.'' Erik murmured.

''That's Klaus Schmidt and his enforcer, Asa Zell. He pretends he's a land rich someone-or-another in the Empire, but everybody knows he sells guns without all the hoop-jumping usually required by legitimate contractors. No one knows where he's based or how he makes them. I heard a joke once that _he_ was a gun, and just sired a lot of children. Anyway, he came up from Hanover last spring after unloading all his best stock on Napoleon, and has been worming his way into my circles somehow ever since. Gives me the creeps, he does. Crooked as a snipes tail, make no mistake! Oh bloody hell...“

''What?'' Erik said, but couldn't take his eyes off the crimson clad thug. Zell was a Russian name.

''He's seen me. Devil's tits in an Easter Basket, he's coming over-God damn my resting niceface!''

''Your what?''

But John didn't have time to elaborate. Mr. Schmidt had reached the aisle within earshot, and was soon adjusting his cape archly to offer his hand. Erik took his and Asa's when offered, but the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Their sheer proximity was unnerving.

''Johnathan. I didn't think I'd see you here. That Logan fellow's an oddity, is he not?''

His English was perfect, but for a slight Hanoverian harshness to his consonants that Erik knew well. John gave what Erik had begun to recognize as his ''society smile,'' (not nearly as creased in the corners), and inclined his head. ''Indeed, indeed. Most impressive. I don't believe you've met my colleague, Mr. Erik Lehnsherr. He's from your neck of the woods as it happens.''

Erik gave a tight bow and never took his eyes off of either of them. ''Pleased to meet you both.''

Schmidt suddenly stepped a foot closer and scrutinized his face with those strange, beady eyes.

''Lehnsherr...Lehnsherr...you're not indigenous Empire, no. That name and those long 'e's of yours. They've a foreign tint to them. Are you Russian, perhaps?''

Erik's jaw tightened. ''Not at all. Good ear though; the family name used to be Lehnovitz. My parents were Polish. They...emigrated. In the nineties.'' At that last, he turned his gaze to Asa, and narrowed his eyes ever so slightly.

The man in red connected the dots, and very conspicuously wiped the hand he'd previously offered against his loud, red lapel. ''You are a Jew?'' He hissed, and was about to say something else, but Klaus interrupted.

''Now now Asa. When in Rome-or Britian-it's best to play by their rules.'' His lips pulled back in a disingenuous grin. ''So John, this is the secret disciple you've been hiding?''

John, bless his heart, raised himself to his full height (rather short) and puffed out his chest. ''There's no secret here, Schmidt. I'm proud to call Erik my friend and associate. Why, just today, we secured a very important patent on the rack and pinion engine-''

''Your locomotive, yes.'' Schmidt smarmed. ''Delightful little project. Erik, you must be quite proud of yourself. I've always said your people have their places, and pottering away under a train is certainly one of them.''

Erik briefly considered taking a page out of the Wolverine's book and throwing a punch, but decided he didn't want to embarrass John after his show of solidarity. Instead, he settled for the most acrid tone he could muster. ''I can think of a few other people just now who'd be right at home under a train of mine. Perhaps as we expand, they'll get their chance.''

To his surprise, Schmidt erupted with laughter so loud that nearby spectators shot their group quizzical looks. He then turned his attention to John. ''Well, I don't want to keep you, you're clearly celebrating your big day. Just swung by to invite you to my New Years Eve ball old boy. My wife sent your wife an invite but I do like to cross her Is and dot her Ts when I can. Women can be so forgetful. Bring Erik here too, why not? With a mouth like that, he's sure to be entertaining.''

Johnathan bowed again, a tacit dismissal, and then very pointedly retook his seat on the bench. ''I'll be sure to ask Mary if she recieved it. Good evening, Mr. Schmidt. Mr. Zell.''

Erik said nothing further, instead hoping his gaze would bore a hole into their respective backs as they walked up the steps and out of sight.

'' Dreadful, didn't I tell you?? Two dreadful boors. I will not be going to that ball I can tell you! Oh to be sure my set will be there, in a frothy panic to stockpile their armories for when Napoleon marches into town with the guillotine, but I won't buy into it, no sir, not me. And the way he _spoke_ to you! Truly, there is no excuse, I am so-''

''No.“ Erik interrupted, and re-took his seat. The encounter had boiled his blood, but not only with anger. ''No John, you _will_ go to that ball and so will I.''

If confusion were a scientific term, Erik could have looked up John's face in the primer. ''Why ever would we go? It will be torture!“

''What are guns made out of, John?''

''Er, metal? Have you gone funny?''

''And what are trains made out of, John?''

A beat, as understanding dawned bright in the holly colored eyes. ''Metal! Trains are made of metal! Are you thinking to-''

''Yes.“ Erik said, barely able to contain himself. ''We're going to poach his suppliers, his investors-everything. He's not going to make a bloody cent at this ball of his, or at any ball hereafter, because we're going to sell the rail road system and the Salamanca prototype like corner newsmen. Guns are all well and good, but once we explain how a train can get all their precious baubles and family heirlooms, not to mention their own hides, _away _from Napoleon in record time? Well, they'll be throwing money at us.''__

His cheeks were burning again, this time from excitement. He looked down at his signet ring, which had been in his family for generations, and rubbed his thumb across it tenderly. ''You know, my father was a great orator, before the Cossacks killed him. And my time so far in London has convinced me that we are indeed, standing on the fulcrum of the future. His lot, his game....that's the past. Let's show him, John. Let's conquer that Hanoverian bastard and build an empire.'' 

John, in one of his habitual buckings of propriety, wrapped him up in an earnest hug. ''God bless you man! I think I'm in love!'' 

Erik sincerely hoped not. They had far too much work to do together for that kind of distraction. 

* * *

**Tuesday, December the 31st, 1811  
** **Lady Fortune's Tea Room (Women Only)  
** **Carey Street**  
**11:30AM**

Raven adjusted an errant curl in her wig, and peered once again through her opera glasses out the window. ''Half an hour late. If she were an actress I'd have her tarred and feathered.'' 

Blink, who was reading a folio of Twelfth Night and practicing lines under her breath, rolled her eyes in her peripheral vision. ''We's fortunate then tha' she innt. Be patient, will yeh? S'not a walk in the park, what we asked 'er tah do.'' 

Raven put down her glasses in frustration; nothing. Merely an ostentatious carriage and liveries loitering on the cobblestones, no doubt waiting for the escort who rented them. ''She's a lady's maid, not the bloody queen. How many times can you fluff a bleeding pillow!?'' 

''Quite many time'' said a heavily accented voice behind her, and Raven nearly jumped out of her own skin. Before she could recover herself, a striking young woman with skin the color of chestnuts and eyes that were almost black appeared in her field of vision. She wore an emerald green day dress and plumes that matched the carriage liveries outside, but for all her finery she did not stand much on ceremony. She took the empty seat across from Raven without so much as a curtsey. ''My name is Angelica-eh, Angel. You English call to me 'Angel.' '' She said. ''I am to be late because I change in carriage. I not want any person to know these errands I do.'' 

Blink grinned from ear to ear, and nudged Raven on the shoulder in a mannish way. ''Wot'd I tell ya darlin? Angel's a top girl. Whose carriage is it this time, Dearie? An' are ya willin' tah share'im?'' 

Angel removed her black gloves, and placed them into her large carry-purse. ''Mister Bolivar is not for sharing.'' She said with a wicked grin. ''He is from home.'' 

Raven, finding the lack of manners contagious, let out a snort. ''No. I refuse to believe that you are lady's maid by day, Mistress to a revolutionary by night. It's too...Rococo.'' 

Angel shrugged. ''You to believe what you are wanting. In any case this is not why you call.'' 

Raven laughed. ''Fair enough, fair enough. Well did you manage it or not? Forgive my lack of niceties it's just that we're running out of time. You know how to keep a lady in suspense, even one used to fraught theater finales!'' 

Angel frowned, and addressed Blink. ''This one, she is talking too fast. But I do it. Mrs. Frost, she listen to me. She know me from before, when I to work in Mr. Schmidt's house of guns in Venezuela. She think I am good. She not know how I feel here.'' She pointed to her heart. ''She marry him after seeing his house of guns. She knows who he is. What he can do to people. Together they are like the ones who to buy and to...to give away for money, to sell! They are like the ones who buy and sell slaves.'' 

Raven nodded and considered. ''So we've solved the mystery of his base of operations, anyway. I'll have to tell Charles later.'' 

Angel continued. ''Anyway last week I asks her, 'Milady, what you will be to wearing for the feast of St. Sylvester? I will to get the valet to prepare accessories and Mr. Schmidt's things.' And she tell me easy, that it will be the all white gown down from America and the Heart of Ice.'' 

Blink plunked another lump of sugar in her tea. ''Haht of oyce indeed. Dunnt she wear tha' a' all 'ours?'' 

Angel smiled. ''This one, it is the ice of diamonds on a chain. When she show it to me, so I could to talk to the valet, I remember everything. I hide in the pantry and I draw it with a quill I to stole. Monsieur LeBeau said I was natural at drawing.'' 

Raven nodded bigly. ''So he is the famed jeweler. Well that explains it. Leave it to a Frenchman to be so casual about deadlines.'' 

Angel reached into her carry-purse and pulled out a parcel wrapped in brown paper and a large parchment envelope. ''Do not to be hard on the Monsieur. He did good at his work. The necklace is exactly matching. She will never know for the rest of her wicked life, unless su hermano to ruin the job.'' 

Raven hid the parcel in the folds of her dress as if it were some scandalous artifact. ''He won't mess up. He's in his rooms practicing the routine now. They did consent to a magic show, did they not?'' 

Angel inclined her head. ''That, though more harder, will happen. Mrs. Frost she does not like silly shows, but Klaus to thinking it is a good idea. And when the head Butler is telling him Mister Xavier will be doing it, he is thinking that is very funny, and volunteered Mrs. Frost to being his assistant.'' Angel smirked. ''She not liking that very much, I can tell.'' 

Raven had to restrain herself from punching the air like one of Logan's oddsman when he landed one on the jaw. ''Oh our luck, our luck is sublime. The map and the X that marks treasure, all in one lah-dee-dah lady. I don't suppose this envelope is a fortune teller's prediction of riches and freedom?'' 

''No,'' Angel drawled. ''Only your invitation.'' 

Raven raised her eyebrows. ''Surely not! I haven't been allowed into any society apart from their husband's arseholes since before I came into acting! Has the good lady Frost hit her head or doesn't she comprehend that I'm the scandal of my debuting season?'' 

Blink laughed so hard that her face contorted until her tattoos crinkled into small points. ''Jolly well put.'' 

''They are not from London, you forget.'' Angel said. ''Maybe they are not having the 'ears' for your scandal. And you are a famous as well as...what is it the British say....as well as infamous, and so is your amigo the boxer. I am to thinking they are wanting to meet with the famous. It is what they define as 'risque.'" 

Raven shrugged. “Goodness Blink, do you think I should wear my Mary Magdalene getup? They seem so set on fetishizing.'' 

''I think yeh should wear somthin'...inconspicuous,'' Blink said wisely. 

Raven sighed, and began gathering her things. There was much yet to do, and Charles had intimated plans for her in his magic act. ''Funeral weeds it is then. And anyway, they'll get their comeuppance by the end of the evening.'' 


	2. PART TWO: THE HEIST

**PART TWO: THE HEIST**

[](http://postimg.org/image/9gel60df7/full/)  
[invia immagini](http://postimage.org/index.php?lang=italian)  
  


**December the 31st, 1811**  
**Touton Club New Years Eve Gala**  
**Central London**  
**9 Oclock in the Evening**  


In the end, they took the Sisterhood's carriage. It was gaudy and painted up with caricatures from their most famous shows, but it was, after all, to be an evening of smoke and mirrors. Charles led Raven and Logan into the foyer amidst a few open-mouthed gawkers, the only respectable member of society in the threesome. Even the cloakroom clerk, famous for his military indifference, pulled a face. 

''The bag too, sir?'' He said icily, pointing to Charles's large and out of place trunk dragging behind. 

''No no good man, I'm tonight's entertainment as well as a guest.'' 

He waited for the clerk to interrogate him further, but he merely appraised him up and down, fought not to roll his eyes at the Touton Club's eccentric gentleman professor, and handed Raven her dance card. 

''Oi I do _not_ miss this,'' Raven muttered, and wiped a smudge off of Logan's severe tailcoat lapel. ''I feel rather like a pig being bought at market. Quick you two, fill my booklet already or I'll be stuck dancing with every sod in London who wants a little for free.'' 

Charles sighed, and swallowed past the lump of anxiety in his throat. ''Just tell them all you're married and defer to the unequal number of single women waiting for partners.'' He advised. ''There's bound to be ladies enough twiddling their thumbs; Mrs. Frost is a notoriously bad hostess they say, and favors her set of two or three and no one else.'' 

''Yes.'' Logan mused. ''Married. Right. So she's my wife, I'm a cave man...is smoking a faux pas? Can I smoke in there?'' 

''If you have pipe tobacco it shouldn't be a problem but no roll-ups. Roll-ups are a no-no.'' /God how do I even remember all this tripe? Mother would be so pleased./ 

''Well whaddya know.'' Logan near-growled. '' I'm sheer out of que---er, I mean, uh, quaint, pipe tobacco. Don't worry though I'll be discreet.'' 

Charles surveyed the ballroom and nearly cringed. They'd had the standard Touton gold replaced with ostentatious red silk drapes. Red red red everywhere you looked, even down to the upholstery, and the furniture—clearly imports of the Schmidt's—was in the French style, of all the unpatriotic missteps. Perhaps most scandalously, there didn't seem to be a dining area, merely a buffet style stand-and-graze table peppered with fruits, assorted amuse-bouches, and three different kinds of wine. 

''Are they hosting a ball or a barn raising?'' He muttered. The snobbery like the etiquette was a habit left over from a bygone sober Sharon's influence on his formative years, but in truth he was glad of the light fare. 

He didn't think he would keep down much this evening. 

Flies had already begun to swarm Raven. A pale, frenetic sort of fellow with blonde hair corkscrewing every which way bowed and began to issue his dance invitation before she'd even had a glass of refreshment. Raven cut him off mid-sentence. 

''Sorry little Puck, I already have my man. Why don't you go buzz around that girl-'' She pointed to a wilting wallflower in an absurd yellow dress across the room. ''I can see her uni-brow from here but I bet she'd be a really grateful partner.'' 

He sputtered and walked away, Logan rolled his eyes, and Raven drew in close to Charles as he stowed his trunk with the waiter's assent under the wine table. ''So, do you have everything? All your bits and bobs and Monseur LeBeau's handiwork?'' 

Charles checked his sleeves for the umpteenth time, reassuring himself that the necklace and the clockwork and all his other hidden tools of trade were well in place, and forced himself to smile. 

''Ready as I'll ever be, good sister. What about you? Are your...dress weights, well in hand?'' 

She winked obscenely. ''I'll go up like a chimney at your signal. Now I guess all we do is wait.'' 

They waited in the ball fashion, which is to say, Charles and Logan alternately spun Raven across a half empty floor and kept their eyes out for their hosts, who were almost always late. The quadrille band played a series of waltzes first, a controversial choice that led to the outright refusal of some ladies to take a turn. Charles was beginning to wonder if all these social flubs were not a series of unfortunate accidents made by an immigrant but some sort of sadistic game Schmidt was playing. He had only a vague recollection of the man but he remembered thinking he was a disturbing fellow, and couldn't shake the feeling that he was capable of...well, anything. This feeling was only bolstered when Raven found him in his rooms that afternoon and related Miss Salvadore's story. It was as though Schmidt, this barbarian, this war criminal, were openly mocking the primness of London culture. Each flub was an arrogant underscoring of the social set's dependence on him in their desperation, for the brass tax was simply this: 

They would buy guns from gypsies on the street, to escape the fate of King Louis and Miss Antoinette. 

For a while, as he danced and drank, he succeeded in losing himself. It would become possible, sometimes, when he'd reached the very height of fear, to divorce himself from his turmoil and float above it all like a spirit. He had done it when he was young, and Kurt came for him. Before his Oxford exams, and now, before...well. 

But something—no, someone, kept disturbing what he liked to call the Doom Trance. Kept drawing him out. That someone stood on the outskirts of the bereft dance floor, a human lodestone for the dozen or so men from Charles's set. He was a formidable figure in his charcoal tailcoat, cut to accentuate his height and broaden his shoulders (which needed no help). He also wore the most peculiar pair of boots and bucked tradition with a matching pair of gloves. They looked almost like riding gear—red, polished leather, but for the bits of steel embedded into the palms and ankle seams. His face, though stern and Germanic with eyes the color of sleet, was anything but cold as he spoke at a good clip in perfect English about his passion-- 

''Gentlemen, I've traveled across the sea, given up my business, and invested my life savings because I believe in what John is doing.'' Here he pointed to the blonde man who'd asked Raven for a dance. 

‘‘Our technicians are in Middleton right now, spending their holidays making history. John's engine is revolutionary—dare I say unbreakable. This ore of ours that runs in stripes under our feet for the taking, we are only just beginning to understand it's capabilities. Don't waste your money enslaving yourselves to the same old script. Don't sink it all in bullets, in guns that jam or run on powder rendered useless by a little bit of rain. Napoleon is only as good as his purse, and with our trains, you can spirit away like ghosts in the night, bank your treasures, and fund other people's militias. You can get your wives and children to safety in a single evening long before his cavalry has time to saddle! After all, if given the choice...'' Here he paused, and shot his gloved hand out towards the blonde man as if grasping for something. He frowned, concentrating hard, and Charles, who had been dancing perfunctorily while watching and listening, stopped dead in his steps as the blonde man's watch shot up out of his breast pocket and floated across the foot long space into the mysterious man's hand. 

''...why slog through the mud, when you can fly?'' 

''That's incredible. He's figured out how to magnetize the metal enough to create kinetic effect.“ Charles murmured as the thoroughly impressed gentlemen surrounding the stranger made sounds of astonishment a yard away. 

Raven scrutinized him, clearly annoyed. ''What, that parlor trick? I've seen you do better in your sleep! Keep it in your trousers for an evening, will you? The hostess has arrived!'' 

She gestured with her eyes across the room, and Charles tore his gaze away to look where she directed. Indeed, a woman who could only be Mrs. Frost appeared from a side entrance, and was searching the room for her entourage. Charles's chest flooded with relief as he saw that she was wearing the Heart of Ice around her neck as Angel promised she would be, as well as a dress that appeared to be white silk organza-a liquid, movable fabric that would play well into his illusion She was undeniably beautiful, but somehow Charles, who had always had the near telepathic ability to read people, couldn't help but notice the cruelly set mouth, the ice blue eyes, the countenance that looked as though it would not be moved by the suffering of man, woman or child. 

Like the diamonds she wore, she was hard and cold. He thought again of Angel, of the sweat shops in Venezuela and the man this woman had chosen for a husband, and felt not a hint of remorse for the crime he was about to commit. 

''Oh Christ, here comes her worse half.'' Raven said under her breath, and disengaged from him quickly before employing a practiced curtsey. Klaus Schmidt had snuck up behind them. 

''Charles! Charles Xavier! Guten Tag, how _is_ that ravishing mother of yours?'' 

/Speak of the devil, and he shall appear./ Charles turned to fully face his addressor and bowed, although the other man forced him to endure a gauche embrace instead. He hoped he did not feel too much of the clockwork skeleton underneath his shirtsleeves. 

''She is very well, thank you, and sends her regrets at not attending this evening.'' 

As he spoke, Charles took a good look at the man who could be his family's downfall. He was larger than life, manic with a host's excitement, beady eyes honed like a chicken hawk's on Charles's every move. ''Jolly good to hear! And I see you've brought the prodigal daughter with you. How charming, my Emma did always like hard cases. Emma dear, come meet the Xaviers!'' 

Emma glided across the space to her husband's side, and took his arm. She did not curtsey, merely appraised them, expressionless and clearly unimpressed. ''How do you do. I am given to understand that I will be your assistant this evening during your little show. I do hope it doesn't require too much practice as I really haven't the time to devote nor the inclination.'' 

Charles smiled his social smile and inclined his head. ''Not at all, Madame. You will help me in the finale and do only as I direct. 'Sit, stand, twirl.' That sort of thing. It's customary during my private shows to employ the most beautiful guest, and in this case it's a happy circumstance that she is also the hostess.'' 

He used his sweetest voice, the voice that had gotten him bombarded by a dozen girls at University. Emma made a rather unladylike sound at the back of her throat, and raised her head up higher so that the Heart of Ice glinted at the dip of her collarbone. 

''My my, flattery's gotten you everywhere, hasn't it? You'd do well to curb it with me dear, for I know if it is beauty you seek, your beholding eye is somewhat blind to all but the likes of Adam and his brothers, rather than even the fairest Winter's Eve.'' 

Charles felt the color drain from his face. Raven opened her mouth to say something that would no doubt derail the entire event, but he promptly stepped on her foot, hard, and nudged her towards a lurking Logan, who bowed quickly and all but carried her away. Meanwhile, Klaus chuckled and shook his head. 

''Now now, Emma. We never wound our own kind thus.'' 

Charles thought of the blood on these cretins' hands, of Thomas, braver than any man he had ever known, and Kurt, his life's jailer, and found his voice. ''You speak in dangerous riddles, Madame. I urge you to tread softly.'' 

She took no time to answer. ''And you live a dangerous life, Sir. You and your entire clan. I wonder that you still have leave to tread at all.'' 

She stalked away before he could render a response, and took up conversation with a foreign looking man in a red suit. Klaus, meanwhile, clapped him on the shoulder and continued to laugh. ''Never mind her, my boy, never mind her. Give us a few minutes and then we'll cut the music and get on with your show before everyone's too pissed to appreciate the Lie's Coquettish Cousin, as the parsons call Illusionism.'' He then leaned in close, and whispered something in his ear that chilled him to the bone. ''But then, lying is a family trait, isn't it? Don't forget to pass along my regards to Marko. And perhaps with the addendum, 'tick tock.' '' 

* * *

Erik felt like he was floating above all the world. The more he spoke about their enterprise, the more he began to believe in their chances. John was an excellent wing man, making the introductions in the proper stuffy British style, intimating when to pause, when to beat around the bush, and when to be himself, which was to say, direct and passionate. By the end of the first hour, they were both convinced that Schmidt's derisive tardiness had cost him half of his investors, and now Erik drank in earnest, fingering the small handful of names, numbers, and business cards that had been handed to him over the course of the evening. 

One man though, a Mr. Charles Xavier as the gossips dubbed him, stayed conspicuously aloof, and spent his time gazing around the dance floor as if quite distracted. He headed a rather unorthodox subset that included a fallen actress sister and one of the boxers they'd seen the week before. If Erik had not been so single-minded about his networking, he would have tried to meet The Wolverine, despite his wife's rude dismissal of John. 

''Look at them, waltzing away as if it's not veritable pornography. Then again that's to be expected from the likes of her.'' John grumbled into his wine glass and glared in the general direction of The Lady Mystique and her less infamous brother.

Erik stowed his gloves away, demonstrations over for the moment, and had the footman pour him another of the same. ''Beware sour grapes, John. And besides, you shouldn't have asked her. Your wife's big with child at home.'' 

John sighed. ''Yes-and the exact shape and size of the Godmother's pumpkin carriage, as it happens. Can't say it really lights my candle, if you know what I mean. There's no harm in dancing, anyway!'' 

Erik smirked and drained his glass, but couldn't seem to stop following Charles with his eyes long enough to engage his friend politely. His blue tailcoat brought out the absurd azure of his eyes, and the expression on his face as he handed off his sister to The Wolverine and began futzing about with an overlarge trunk intrigued him. He was pale as death, the small dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks standing out like a blueprint's margin scratchings, and his red mouth was set in a hard line. Erik wondered fiercely what Schmidt and his odious wife could have said during their short exchange moments ago, to make such a naturally generous and beautiful face so grim--

''Erik? Earth to Erik?''

John interrupted his train of thought and waved his free hand vigorously in front of his face. 

''Sorry, yes?'' Erik started, and turned to face his friend, who had his self-satisfied grin on again. 

''Where did you go, Mr. Magneto?'' He teased, using the nickname they'd drunkenly agreed upon some months ago, when Erik had first shown him his experimental magnetized regalia. ''Don't tell me we have to duel over her! You were honed in like a mongoose!''

''Certainly not.'' Erik drawled. ''Only...I wondered about her brother. He seems familiar to me somehow. I can't shake the feeling I've seen him somewhere before.''

John examined him intensely for a moment. '' My God man, are you blushing? I don't think I've ever seen you blush, not even when you disappear off to God Knows Where in the brothels! Is that it, eh? You're tired of sugar and spice and everything nice? Want to go the way of the Greeks for a bit?'' 

Erik, who had revealed nothing of his proclivities to John and indeed tread very carefully within the back rooms of the aforementioned dens of ill repute, was taken aback by the easy way the other man spoke of this unspeakable, jailable pastime. Finally determining that he was just teasing in his stark way, he raised an eyebrow and fought for a cool tone. ''Don't be vulgar.'' He said. ''I just wanted to know his story.'' 

John made no other startling remarks, and merely shrugged. ''Not entirely sure. He's a bit of a recluse in society, they say. Always holed up at Oxford pottering about in the labs. Apparently, he's to give a magic show tonight; one of his many strange talents-Marry look! He's set up a whole little junk shop over there-that was so quick I didn't even see him do it! I'll never understand what's so dull about the usual diversions, that some men must find ways to branch out so. The theater is quite the limit for me-well, that and quail hunting, of course.'' 

Erik chuckled and gravitated closer to the small stage full of strange trinkets that Charles had unfolded out of the trunk. ''You British patriots and your guns.'' 

At that moment, two footmen in the back of the room began snuffing exactly half the lamps and candles so as to dim the lights. Schmidt, Asa Zell (who was clad in the red suit Erik was beginning to suspect was a second skin), and Mrs. Frost floated in a sinister threesome to the center of the room and began directing people to form a semicircle around the still sheet-white Xavier. Once everyone had coagulated into that portion of the ballroom, Schmidt tinked his dessert spoon against his empty wine glass until all the chatter died down. 

''Honored guests!'' he began, throwing his arms out as if attempting to embrace the room. Mrs. Frost silently emptied his hands of the glass, and put it to the side. ''Welcome to our humble little NewYears Eve soiree. It's not a very conventional party for your customs I am told, but back home in Hanover, we tend to shun the conventional. Isn't that right, my love?'' 

Emma lifted her chin and let through a small condescending smile of agreement. The heart shaped diamond necklace she was wearing glinted aggressively in the candlelight—Erik, who had simple tastes, thought it was a terribly nouveau-riche adornment and knew half the room would be scorning her had it not been real and made by some famous lapidary or another. 

''Anyway, in keeping with this innovative spirit, we've invited Mr. Xavier here to perform a few tricks of his trade for your enjoyment. I confess to being eager for a taste of this Illusionism, as you British call it, so without further ado, Mr. Charles Xavier—what's your stage name good man? Emma I forgot his stage name, silly me...''

Charles bowed and stepped into the space Schmidt and Frost had vacated. ''Hardly a stage name.'' He said in a soft Oxonian accent. ''My students sometimes call me Professor X.'' 

Beside him, John stifled a giggle. ''Really now. The Lady Mystique, The Wolverine, Professor X-I feel like I'm in one of those folios for children the Orientals draw.''

''Hush,'' gruffed Erik, and stepped a little closer to the Professor. 

''Thank you for that introduction, Sir. It's fitting that you have addressed convention, because tonight, I'd like for all of us to examine the concept of appearances.''

As he spoke, his face at last began to animate with something like joy. His shoulders loosened as he walked three paces to his left on the little wooden elevation and stopped in front of a small coat rack, upon which hung several scarves. He chose an embroidered pashmeena and contemplated it idly, allowing the heavy silk to slip through his fingers as he rolled and unrolled it around his palms and continued his speech. 

''We men and women share our five senses with most of the animal life on this planet. We depend upon them utterly, and only those of us who grow to master their myriad messages survive and thrive to pass along our names. We are fluent in the language of our senses, and when a sense is pleasant to us...'' here he trailed off, and spun once like a ballet dancer, letting the scarf float in the air around him and pass through his other hand as it came down like liquid...''like the touch of this silk is against my fingers, it is music. The problem though...'' The scarf found it's way around Charles's neck, and he squeezed it worryingly tight as he continued...''is that we become so adept at sense language, so confident of the messages both transmitted and received by our bodies and the world around us, that when we encounter a message we do not expect--'' 

In a movement almost too quick to see, The scarf fell loose from Charles's neck as he snapped it in a straight, stiff line behind his back. When he brought it forward to face the crowd once more, it was no longer a scarf, but a graceful rapier bejeweled with plum colored stones. Erik let out a huff of air, a note in the chorus of amazement around him, and smiled embarrassingly wide when the Professor caught his eye, smirked, and teasingly pointed the small sword at his cravat. He completed his thought. 

''We are caught off guard.''

Charles leaned the sword against a small card table next to the coat rack, and poured a glass of red something or another from the decanter that stood on top. He gestured at random to a homely young lady in yellow and held out the glass, which she took, pink cheeked, and giggled. 

''Madame, would you be good enough to employ your sense of taste and sip this for us?'' 

She did as she was asked and placed the glass nervously back on the table.

''And what was that my dear?'' 

''Why, it's table wine.'' She offered, and he nodded as if expecting the answer. 

''Quite. An easy and astute deduction.'' As he agreed, Charles swirled the decanter three times as if airing the wine out, then re-filled the glass and offered it to Mr. Schmidt himself. ''Sir, if you would be so kind.''

Schmidt obliged, and after he had sipped, huffed a laugh. ''That's not wine. It's pomegranate juice! Impressive, most impressive.''

Charles took the cup back and finished the glass as if he were swilling tavern grog. When he'd finished, he wiped his sleeve across his mouth in a gesture that Erik suspected had ulterior employment, and winked at no one in particular. ''Indeed. Refreshing, but not what it was before. Here en lies another handicap of our senses, which is that the state of things can be so fickle, and they often struggle to keep up. Our world is ever changing, our minds so bombarded with new and conflicting information every day that sometimes, our memories of circumstance suffer as well.''

At this, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a keepsake portrait on small canvas of a middle aged nobleman sitting in a severe looking chair. 

''Dear sister,'' He addressed the Lady Mystique, and handed her the portrait, which she promptly swept around the semicircle so that everyone could take a look. ''Can you tell the audience who this is?'' 

''This is our departed father, Brian Xavier.'' She supplied, and stilled in her display of the portrait. 

''Correct. And what color were our dear father's eyes?'' 

Mystique looked down and theatrically squinted at the picture. ''They're brown, obviously.'' They were. 

''Are you sure about that? I seem to remember them being green.'' Charles said in almost a sing song voice, and as he contradicted her, the color of the old man's eyes in the portrait changed to pine. Mystique, ever the actress, gasped most convincingly, and showed the crowd once more. ''Or maybe blue...'' They shifted again at Charles's command....''To be honest I couldn't swear to any of that darling. Best to just stick to our story and leave them brown.'' 

And brown they turned again. This time, the clapping was more animated, for everyone had seen up close the eyes change, and although there was some whispered speculation, no one was even remotely sure how that had been pulled off. 

John, who was slight and had had more than his fair share of wine, clapped a little longer than necessary and called out ''Oi, you're lucky you're not an American! They'd string you up for witchcraft!''

Everyone tittered, Charles most of all. ''Probably, although I think it's a foolhardy idea to write America off just yet.'' He opened the trunk again, stowed away the wine, and replaced it with a small orange tree in a clay pot. ''You see, we humans tend to misjudge almost as often as we misremember. For example...'' He reached his hand into the small boughs of the tree and poked around. After a moment, it emerged boasting a small, spiny worm-like thing, black yellow and orange, with strange squirming cilia and too many legs. It was nearly the entire length of his palm and looked this way and that at it's audience. Erik, who could take three men in a fight and had shoveled literal shit during one of his many odd jobs in Berlin, really did not want to be any nearer to the thing than he had to. 

''This caterpillar. It's ugly, strange and ungainly, yes?'' There was the sound of general assent. ''Many of you would probably mistake it for a gypsy moth larva and slaughter it in your gardens without a second thought, or step on it on the way to retrieve the post. But with just a little bit of time...'' Here he reached out the caterpillared hand the full length of his arm and began moving it clockwise in a large circle. ''When the moment is right, if this caterpillar is given it's due...'' On the third revolution of Charles's arm, the creature perched atop his finger began to vibrate until it was a blur. With just the smallest sound of metal on metal, heard only by Erik because it was a sound he was accustomed to and he was looking for it, the creature's legs disappeared, its colors morphed, and all at once it sprouted spectacular wings until it was the size of a dinner plate. ''He will transform into something so extraordinary that the richest of ladies would covet him for their Sunday chapeaus, isn't that right darling?'' 

Just as he addressed the Lady Mystique, the rainbow-hued butterfly alighted from his hand and flew to the general astonishment of the crowd across the semi circle to take a new place atop her head, as if he were an adornment bought at market. 

''Look at his cute little mug.'' She gushed, and stroked the formidable creature on it's proboscis. ''I think I'll keep him.'' 

Here, when it was clear the applause would not allow for further demonstration, Charles broke for a few minutes of butterfly petting, and let the creature stand the test of close examination. Erik had to admit that it passed with...well, flying colors, from the wing kinesis to it's texture and moving eyes. He began to doubt his clockwork theory, and was in the process of entertaining several elaborate exotic-animal training ideas when Charles once more called for order. 

''How the tables have turned for our winged friend.'' He said fondly, and replaced the butterfly atop the orange tree where he settled and seemed to sleep. ''Of course, this sort of misjudgement often extends to more serious matters. Art, politics, the integrity of people...throughout history, grave misjudgements have been made and have even cost lives. The redcoats' contempt for our American cousins' motley militia is one example. John the Baptist's trust of Salome is another-the scornful oppression of Galileo is another still. The record of the world is so rife with missteps, a close study of it and our natures can lead some less optimistic souls to despair, bogged down as they are with the age-old questions: Who are we? What is real?'' 

He let that hang in the air for a few moments, then stepped off his stage and bowed deeply to Mrs. Frost, who headed the center of the semi circle. ''For my finale, I request the assistance of our ravishing hostess, Mrs. Frost. Madame, if you would sit please, on this footstool.'' 

Mrs. Frost gave a slight inclination of her head, and perched on the small stool he had provided. She looked blankly ahead, a hard set to her mouth that told Erik she was participating under duress or to be polite (which for him often amounted to the same thing). Charles spoke again. 

''Here, ladies and gentleman, we have the aspirations of every society lady embodied. Her finery and her coiffure all signal that she is a member of the elite, there is no hint of impropriety in her manner, and she has made a study of all those secret books of British etiquette.'' Erik wasn't sure if he imagined the slight scuff at the edge of the Professor's voice. He was sure, at any rate, that the catlike grace of his stride as he circled the stool wasn't a figment of his overstimulated mind. Nor was the piercing, meaningful look he flashed at Raven with his electric blue eyes just before the entire area went up in a thick, mauve colored smoke saturated in sparkling, floating bits of aluminum.

There should have been panic. But for an interminable moment, the room was devoid of sound. He tried to shout, to begin the chorus of agitation, but it was as if the whimsical smoke were a malignant London smog. It infected his lungs and his bloodstream, filling him with confusion and lethargy, so that all he could do was grasp at an equally faltering John's shoulder and wait for it to clear. 

''What the bloody hell is this?'' Asked his friend after some time in a strangled voice. 

''I don't know...'' Erik replied, ''But I don't like it. Something's afoot.''

''L-look!'' John gasped, and pointed ahead of them. ''It's clearing...and...by God look at what's happened to Mrs. Frost!'' 

Erik rubbed his eyes and tried to master his vertigo, but even the difficulty orienting himself couldn't hide the spectacle before him in the dissipating haze. 

Emma Frost sat ruined atop her stool. Her face, only moments ago austere and aloof, was pale as death with real fright and what the matrons in the orphanage used to call 'the one thousand pace stare.'' Her gaudy necklace was gone, and in it's place were streaks of mud. Her once enviable dress had been replaced with a plain, ill fitting homespun shift torn in at the hem to rags, and her hair was matted and disheveled with...

''Is that blood?'' The ugly girl in yellow squeaked, voicing everyone's silent question. 

''It certainly appears so,'' said the Oxonian voice, most definitely sharpened to a hard edge now, and Erik's gaze landed on Charles once more, who was looming behind his assistant (victim?) on the makeshift stage.

''Mr. Xavier,'' Klaus Schmidt said in a very low, slightly wavering tone, almost growling. Emma did not even look towards him, merely kept staring ahead, chest heaving up and down as she gulped air at an unnaturally fast and frantic pace. ''What is the meaning of this?'' 

''What if this Great Lady fell from grace?'' Charles completely ignored Schmidt, (who did look a bit worse for ware and was clutching the coat rack on the stage for balance), and continued to address his audience. ''What if appearances were suddenly stripped away, and replaced with a truer representation of her character? What if Mrs. Frost faced the world every day with blood on her hands in a sackcloth dress? Would you know her? Would you bow to her, and pander to her as we are all in the habit of doing? Or are appearances....'' 

Charles Xavier planted his feet and seemed to bore into all of them with his eyes before snapping his fingers. By the time he lowered his arm, Erik could not say for sure what occurred, or how much time had passed. He only knew that all traces of smoke were gone, and Emma Frost was once again as they were all accustomed to seeing her-perfectly made up, white unblemished gown in place, diamonds glinting, countenance seething-not with aloofness now, but with rage.

''All that matter?'' 

When it was clear that there was no more to see, the applause began, not joyful as it had been before, but hollow and haunted, a social nicety to cover up very real fear. John clutched Erik's arm almost painfully, tried to take a drink, realized his glass was empty, put it down, picked it up again, swore, and placed it far out of the way as the semicircle dissipated. 

''See this is what I mean about novelty. Fecking bonkers, the lot of these artsy types! Why in God's name does Oxford ever let that man out of the basement?'' 

Erik, who was tense all over and deeply disturbed, let his fear turn into anger, but couldn't quite quell his curiosity. ''I'm not sure. But it doesn't look like our magnanimous hosts are amused.'' 

''I think you and your party should leave now.'' Schmidt was saying to an impassive Charles a few paces away as everyone did their best to ignore the imprudence. Emma was shaking, her fists clenched, chest heaving again but for a different reason, restored diamonds catching the brightening beacons of relit candles. (Erik bet the footmen were sorely glad of something to do at that moment). 

''What a shame.'' Charles sighed, and if it hadn't been for what Erik had just experienced, he wouldn't have been able to tell he was mocking. ''I do so love counting down at midnight. I'm frightfully sorry if I scared you darling,'' He bowed again towards Emma and let his lips curve upwards into an impish smile. ''Quite frankly I expected both of you to have thicker skin.'' 

Emma reached up to—Erik wasn't sure what—claw? At the illusionist? But Schmidt grasped her by the wrist and shook his head minutely. ''Not here.''

She stopped resisting, but spat ''Go,'' in an unrecognizable voice, and stalked off before any more words could be said. 

''With pleasure.'' Charles responded to Schmidt's back, and as if on cue, the Lady Mystique and The Wolverine flanked him and began cleaning up his makeshift stage. Mystique inadvertently took the place John had vacated in favor of scandalized gossip and brandy, as Erik was standing between the dessert table and the orange tree she strove to collect. As she squeezed by him she winked, picked up an abandoned wine glass, and gestured towards her brother. 

''Perhaps you should take a photograph, dear. They're forever, you know. Or maybe a drink for the chill in your bones?'' 

Erik barely looked at her. At that moment, he had eyes only for her strange and beautiful kin. ''I'm not cold.'' He said tightly. ''But I have, I think, been drugged.'' 

Mystique shrugged and swanned towards the Wolverine, who was looking distinctly unamused and trying to work out how to fit the coat rack in the trunk. ''Well dear I wouldn't know anything about that.'' She smarmed. ''But there goes the entertainment himself. Who knows? If you ask him the hows and the whats he might tell you.'' 

She meant it in jest, and gave him no further attention. But Erik, who did not enjoy fear or the unknown and had been drawn to the man like the magnets he wore all evening, resolved to take her seriously. He waited until Charles had disengaged himself from his kin and a few brave admirers. Erik tracked him with his eyes until he disappeared into the cloakroom, and then confirmed that John was deep in conversation with a viscount. 

He followed the Professor inside.

* * *

/Pack the trunk, find the cloaks, get out quick. Pack the trunk, find the cloaks, get out quick./

Everything in Charles was panicking, despite the illusion having gone according to plan. His hands trembled as he rifled through the jackets and lady's wraps in search of his party’s things in the dim light, all the while half expecting Schmidt or Frost to jump out of the folds, dagger or police on hand. 

He was also feeling a bit dizzy. He'd warned Raven and Logan about the Carbon Monoxide and laudanum bomb and so they had held their breath, but he'd had to switch the necklaces, apply the wig, narrate and create the dress optics. One lungful of air hadn't quite sustained him until all of the gas had been reabsorbed by the vacuum mechanism hidden under his shirtsleeves. 

The necklace....that cursed heart of ice. He paused before securing his cloak and reached once again under the folds of his collar, running his fingers across the heavy face of the diamond. ''Kurt, what have you turned me into...'' he murmured. 

''Well I don't know a Kurt, but you seem to be the expert in transfiguration. The real question is, were you always a thief, or is this your maiden voyage?''

Charles whirled around to face his accuser, nearly losing his balance in the process. Standing before him was the inspiring orator from earlier, and he did not look pleased. His hands, now gloveless, were half-clenched at his sides and everything about his stance screamed ''offense.'' He'd also accused correctly, the 'T' word ringing loud in the utter silence of shock in the lonely room. 

''Excuse me sir but I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about.'' Charles tried. His heart sank as the stranger smirked. 

''I don't know what all you put in your mystery fog but despite your best efforts I'm not blind. That's the good lady's necklace you're wearing underneath all that cotton. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't alert the authorities.'' 

At this, Charles's dizziness got the better of him, and he nearly fell to the floor as a wave of blackness swam across his vision. He winced in preparation for the impact and tried to brace himself, hoping that none of the clockwork skeleton betrayed him and hit an artery, but the impact never came. Instead, the stranger's arms enveloped him, holding him firmly in place and bringing them close. 

Charles's sight cleared to the portrait of the man examining him intensely, and all of a sudden, it clicked. ''I could give you many reasons...'' he said to the man who had once worn a cat's mask and asked his name, trying to keep his voice even. ''In the name of our previous encounter, I would ask you to hear a few before handing me over to a force we both have cause to fear.'' 

The not-so-strange man huffed and narrowed his eyes. ''And to which previous encounter do you refer? I admit my memory has been nagging at me all evening, but for the life of me I can't place...can't recall...'''

Charles raised his hands up slowly until his fingers cupped the top half of his countenance—rather like a mask. He watched as the facts of the case dawned on his fortuitous accuser, and only then dared speak. ''Perhaps it would jog your memory if we were animals again, instead of men.'' He said, his tone more melancholy than he'd intended. ''As it is, I feel more beast than man, more hunted than anything. Now it would seem the cat has truly caught the rat. I am utterly at your mercy sir, but I do hope you'll take my calling card and let me make the situation clear at a later time.'' 

There was an interminable pause...and then the man released him, accepting the produced card with a haunted nod. ''...I'm Erik.'' He said lamely, then fumbled in his own breast pocket, handing the other man his information. ''I'll be away on business for the next few weeks, but I will write. You can mail return letters to that address.''

Charles let out a ragged sigh of relief. ''Splendid. I'm Charles, Charles Xavier.''

''I know. I asked.'' Erik said, and, like a steel rod dancing with a magnet, stepped closer. 

Charles felt the heat in his face, but did not break eye contact. ''Flattering. I'm sure I don't have to request discretion in your missives; even a suggestive paradox can blow up into a scandal in the wrong hands.''

''I'm not a child.'' Erik said gruffly. 

''Of course not.'' Charles responded, and then let himself really look at the other man. He looked until Erik's well-formed cheeks grew pink, and then he smirked. ''That I well know.''

Despite the flirtation, he was startled when Erik grasped his arm hard and pulled him in, kissing him full on the mouth as if they were the only two people in the world. His fear reaction was strong, but lust was stronger, and before he knew it his mouth was open, accepting Erik's tongue hungrily, overwhelmed by the rough way he handled him and forced them deeper, closer—the absinthe had not done him good service last time, he thought as his hands wandered under Erik's jacket and his leg came up to hook around the backs of his thighs...for it had softened this man's hard edges, blunted the insistent pads of his fingers on his jaw line—dulled the hard need making itself known between them underneath their clothes---a nexus of deviant instinct, a mad, throbbing metronome keeping the beat of their desire. 

''Stop...'' he managed to gasp as Erik broke away for air. ''Stop...I hear voices.''

Erik pulled away reluctantly, wiped his mouth, then straightened his shirt, the picture of composure. ''I am no friend of Schmidt.'' He growled low under his breath as he backed away. ''But my aim is to know you, Charles. You and all your plots. Write me.''

Then he was gone past a group of silly half-drunk girls searching for their furs, and Charles was left to complete his escape, hardly able to believe his luck.

Or his daring.

* * *


	3. PART THREE: The Anguish

**PART THREE: The Anguish**

_January the 5th_  
(Morning Post)  
Penned From My Rooms At The Quicksilver Hotel  
The Town of Middleton 

_Dear Professor X,_

_Thank you for your letter. Your situation is now clear to me, and as I have seen nothing in the London papers about society's most eccentric bachelor being taken away in irons, I can only guess that the cat remains firmly in the bag. Rest assured I will be no accomplice in your downfall, but I do urge you to exercise caution. You, like me, are somewhat of an outsider. I believe that-nay, I am sure that you underestimate how dangerous our mutual acquaintance is, and what he is capable of. You also put far too much trust in the connections of your sister, which surprises me since you were so resistant to her forming them in the first place. To be sure, this boxer of hers will have rubbed shoulders with just the sort of people needed to complete the business, but will not, I suspect, secure them for employ without great cost. And even if you do split the profits with this additional agent, who is to say this will guarantee his loyalty? I would even go so far as to question your entanglement with your stepfather, who may very well see your success in this and press you into further service, recycling his old threats and imprisoning you anew._

_You have many irons clapped about you, my friend. If only we were in my home country, where I know the ropes and am no stranger-I would be just the man to see about removing them._

_As to your inquiries-yes, the locomotive project continues at pace. I was able to secure the best kind of investors the last time we crossed paths; generous, ignorant of the trade, and more than happy to let me reassure them and stay out of the way. John deals with the contractors and keeps worker morale up in the face of my task mastering, which is as I prefer it. I can't abide soft British manners and the umpteenth tea break, not when we are about to make history. Who knows—perhaps the next time I lay eyes upon you, little laboratory rat, it will be at a newly built station in the center of London, from atop a machine no one before us had the imagination or the courage to build._

_At any rate, I hope it is soon. Be careful,_

_Erik (Magneto) Lehnsherr_

_January the 8th,_  
(Afternoon Post)  
Penned at Oxford  
London 

_Dear Magneto,_

_An apt pen name! I will not soon forget your demonstration with the lodestones-you should consider a second employment as an illusionist. We would make excellent partners (in all things). It was with warm appreciation and relief that I received your last letter. Rest assured, the business is securely in hand. We have been lying low for a spell to see if anything at all has been discovered. An agent of ours works closely under F, and she has so far reported that nothing at all has been deemed amiss. You called attention to our outsider status-it's strange. When I was a boy I used to lament my otherness. Sometimes I still do. But as I've gotten older, I have determined that the price of normalcy is often getting caught up in it's cogs and gears. Look at S and F for instance; how like these wheelers and dealers, these nouveau-riche war profiteers who strive so ardently to fit in and belong, to be utterly self-absorbed and miss mischief such as this! One has to wonder how many children could have been fed, clothed, and schooled for the pretty penny spent on a trinket the Good Lady clearly pays little attention to. At any rate, we have all agreed, to borrow language from the serials, that ''the coast is clear.'' The boxer has his choreography and shall proceed on the morrow._

_As to the other shackle you elude to-I am ruminating on it. My stepfather has never been a moral man, but I admit that I underestimated his capacity for spite. He could indeed be my ruin, and Thomas, who I have written to, has made it clear that he wants no part in either the problem or it's possible resolutions._

_Though I can't blame him really, I do. Do you think me petty for it?_

_I dearly hope it is not so. For although spring term has begun and I am up to my ears in undergraduate proposals, my mind often wanders to the image of you, the feline foreigner with the magnets and the trains. Although you are a new friend, I feel as though I have known you for much longer._

_I relish the chance to know you better in future._

_Professor Charles X_

_January the 10th  
(Morning Post)_

_Dear Mr. Klaus Schmidt,_

_Don't bother trying to follow my runner or trace the wax seal-he's lightning and the seal isn't mine to begin with. I'm having this letter all hand delivered fancy-like, because I have something of yours that I think your Missus will be wanting back, along with a fascinating yarn to tell that I hope will convince you of my sincerity._

_To be blunt, I trade in goods that don't belong to me (or the people who deliver'em) and turn them over quick. I make things disappear-and in their place-voylah, there's money. All the bad half of London knows it, but I do you the courtesy of bringing you up to speed seeing as you're a lah-dee-dah Empire man an'all. My offices aren't hard to find for those nameless underbelly types that knows'em, but imagine my surprise when yesterday before tea time, The Wolverine himself waltzes in with a package under'is arm. (I have it on good authority that you and some scary Russian are fans of the Queensbury game, but just in case you want to play dumb, the Wolverine is a boxer, and his real name's Logan Neese or sumthin). He's pretty well known right now for upright reasons, though he saw the inside of Newgate many a time before for less reputable employment, but anyway, I paid attention when he talked. Starstruck, you could say._

_He tells me he's looking to unload a large diamond fast as he could, and to see if I could find an overseas market. He said it was really hot but that he'd deal me in if I could pull it off for over 25,000 quid. I says that's a tall order but I'll see what I can do and to show me the goods. Well, this bloke opens his package (newspaper and butcher's string, if you can believe it), and inside's the biggest fecking ice rink I ever saw in the shape of the old thump thumper. I weigh it and have my man take a close look-it's the genuine article. So I tells him I'll see what I can do and to come back in four days._

_Now I don't mind telling you, sir—I'm not a good Samaritan. You're just lucky that Frenchy who works in the jewelry quarter is such a gab. He hasn't been able to shut up about a counterfeit job he did a week back for someone trying to mimic your beautiful wife. Said he made the Heart of Ice to a T, and hoped it made it's recipient happy, for all the glass and paste it was worth. If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck it's a diamond, an'all that._

_Well, it don't take a genius, does it Mr. Schmidt? Clearly, someone's ripped your little ice princess off, and switched Lebeau's well-meaning mockery for the real deal. If you don't believe me, check yer wife's jewelry box. Either it inn't there no more or what she's got is faker than my Catholic confirmation. That's easily proved enough._

_So once you're satisfied you've been burgled, how about putting a little holly on your door, and another of my agents will be in contact about a buy back. A finder's fee is only fair, I'm sure you'd agree, and I'd have a devil of a time unloading this rock abroad, not even for all the opium in the Orient._

_Warm Regards,_

_Janos Quested (And that inn't my real name neither)_

_January the 10h_  
(Afternoon Post)  
Penned from the work site  
The town of Middleton 

_Dear Charles,_

_You would think pausing so frequently to write to you would lapse my steady progress. But indeed since we have begun our correspondence, I awake each day as if powered by steam, ready to tackle the hum drum challenges of industry with gusto and (dare I say) cheer. First let me say-no, I do not think resenting Thomas is petty in the least. We all know the stakes in this game that is anything but a game—that said, this is a game of partnership by nature, and if your partner is in need of aid, it is a matter of honor to aid him._

_Perhaps you think it bizarre, that I talk of honor and the game together. But I am no shrinking violet, no guilty Catholic. I am a Polish Jew who was run out of his country and orphaned by a political majority, and I have it in my head that our proclivities are merely a standard deviation, rather than the fire and brimstone offense the current moral majority would have us believe them to be. Who knows, perhaps in a hundred years, the players of this game that dare not speak it's name will walk hand and hand out in the open, and our honor towards one another will be apparent in the light of day._

_But that's dangerously close to a dangerous metaphor, and I'm sure you'll scold me in your reply. Forgive me, my friend; I've never been good at tip-toeing around the edges of things. As to the boxer-I have added him, you, and the whole convoluted business to my prayers. Do let me know how that pans out, and come and visit if you've the opportunity, once the curtain has closed. I look forward very much to seeing you again._

_Magneto_

_January the 12h  
(Afternoon Post, Rush Delivery) _

_Dear Asa Zell,_

_I hope this letter finds you quickly. I realize you're halfway to the docks, but it is with regretful urgency that I must ask you to postpone your trip to Russia once more and return immediately to my employ in London. Enclosed you will find everything in the way of explanation-a grubby little letter written under the alias Quested that details a theft and attempted fence. On your way, be good enough to discover the true identity of this man and, once you find him, deal with him in the customary manner. (He pats himself on the back for his anonymity but then handwrites his letter of extortion-an amateur move at best, and is easily tracked with my resources and your vast experience.)_

_Then bring my love's Heart of Ice to me, and we will discuss just how to deal with those naughty Xaviers._

_Klaus Schmidt_

_January 16th_  
(Morning Post)  
Penned at Oxford, Bloody Oxford 

_Dear Erik,_

_I apologize for the delay in my reply, but things have not been terribly rosy of late. For one, they have me teaching eleven units this week because one of the biologists ponced off to France on some small time espionage mission, and so I am lecturing until my voice is raw and working in the lab for hours after that._

_Also, there's been a hiccup in the aforementioned business. The boxer did indeed meet with a disreputable illusionist of another sort (the sort of alchemist that turns secret artifacts into gold). He deposited our package, but when he visited the office on the fourth morning afterward as instructed, the gentleman was nowhere to be found. More worryingly, after some digging, it was discovered that no one, not even his main errand boy, had heard from him since the morning of the 13th. The boxer inquired after weather this was usual, and was assured by friends that it was not, that even when Mr. Quested, as he called himself, traveled on business, he always left word with some sub-agent or another. His shop, too, an antiquing front, appeared to have been ransacked, but seeing as it's in a drab neighborhood the constable is dragging his feet on the investigation._

_To tell you the truth my friend, with no Heart of Ice and Quested's eerie silence, I am finding it harder and harder to ignore the sinking knot in my stomach. I can't help but think that something awful has happened, and that the worst is yet to come._

_Fond Regards,  
Charles_

[](http://postimage.org/)  
[upload](http://postimage.org/index.php?lang=italian)  
  


_January the 18th  
Morning Post (Rush Delivery) _

_Charles,_

_I saw the Lark. Don't do anything ill advised, and stay off the streets. I'll be there as soon as I can._

_Erik_

* * *

**Sunday, January 19th Dusk**  
**On The Road**

Erik paid the carriage double to beat the horses to exhaustion, and still it had taken nearly two full days to get back to London. That had given Erik plenty of time to think, the same stale thoughts rattling around in his head like forgotten nuts and bolts in a drawer, fitful and so oft jostled now as to be almost devoid of meaning. 

He was crazy. That he knew, and that John confirmed. The contractors were set to finish the Salamanca any day now, and he, the chief visionary, might not be around to do the ribbon cutting? The insult to the injury had been his vagueness with the man, as he couldn't very well admit to rushing back in the name of a forbidden love's tragedy. No, he'd mumbled something about an investment gone sour, thrown John and the deputy foreman his blueprints, and high-tailed it out of Middleton before breakfast tea. 

And why? Another odd end in the drawer. Why did he feel so compelled?  
Erik had always been inclined to the cautious giving of his body, and the even more cautious granting of his affection. But something had happened to him that night at the theater... and it had been happening to him ever since. It drew him ever further into the Illusionist's orbit. 

But they were slowing. Why on earth were they slowing down?! Erik leaned out the window and shouted his question to the coachman, only to be told that they were coming up on the science faculty of Oxford University. Erik threw a hefty tip at the man, bounded out of the coach, and ran past impossibly relaxed students into the first doorway that he saw. He waited until another becloaked, wigged figure strolled by, taking this strange garb to be teacher's weeds, and asked where he could find Charles Xavier. The old man sputtered a little at his gruff manner but answered simply that he was in the basement labs, and had not come up since the news reports. 

''Well where the devil are the labs, Man?'' Erik snarled, frustrated to no end by all this dithering.

''I beg your pardon?! And just who are you to be demanding such things? You're lucky you look too old to be a student or I'd box your ears where you stand.''

Erik had reached his breaking point. He grabbed the old pedant by the collar to the murmured gasps of passersby, and put all the heat he could muster into his glare. ''Sir,'' he bit down. ''I don't have time for your nonsense, and neither does he. Now for the last time. The labs.'' 

''S-S-second hallway to the left and down the flight of stairs. But there's n-no need to get worked up about it!'' 

Erik let go and ran in the indicated direction, leaving the shaken professor to collect himself and murmur over the imminent fall of civilized manners. When he reached the first door that would not give under his pushing, pulling, or turning of the knob, he pounded on it, scaring undergraduates out of his vicinity and outright ignoring the weak protestations of would-be helpfuls who informed him that Professor Xavier was not to be disturbed. 

''Charles? CHARLES. OPEN THIS DOOR. It's Erik!'' 

After the second or third entreaty, he heard the heavy metal deadbolt within slide free, and the door creaked ajar. 

There was only a burner and a single candle at work in the cluttered room, but Charles was up, walking phantom-like back to his absolutely atrociously kept workspace in the center. The large slate table was cluttered with jars, piping, specimens and chemicals Erik couldn't begin to identify, but they were intermixed with empty flagons, plates, personal papers, gloves, and, to Erik's horror, an opium pipe that had clearly seen many a season. 

''Charles...have you left this room?'' 

Charles, who was visibly disheveled and sporting three days growth of beard, shrugged and calibrated the burner, which was heating a large beaker of plum colored liquid on a low temperature. 

''Can't.'' He said, voice raw. ''Working.''

Erik was around the table in three steps and took Charles by the shoulders in what he hoped was a gentle but firm way. The other man barely seemed to be registering his presence. 

''You're a naturalist, not a chemist.'' He said flatly. ''What the hell are you getting up to in here? You need to be in a safe house, having proxies arrange Raven's funeral-''

''DON'T tell me what I need to do.'' Charles snarled, and then clamped his mouth shut, as if the intonation was that of a stranger's. ''I know what I need to do. And I am doing it.''

Erik didn't let go. ''And what exactly IS that? Making grape juice?! You've gone mad!'' 

''You wouldn't survive one sip of this so-called juice.'' Charles said darkly, voice lowering a full octave as his eyes slid towards the acrid elixir simmering in the beaker. 

''You don't mean-''

''Yes. It's poison, Erik. I made it mauve, the color Raven favored, before I....before she...'' Here his shoulders quaked, as if they held the burden of some great grief. His bottom lip quivered for a moment, face folding in upon itself in a horrible, hollow expression. But then, as was the hateful custom of this land, Charles locked all of it away, fighting the natural display of emotion and striving for normalcy. ''Before she died. I see now that this whole thing was doomed from the start, but I cannot let them get away scot free with her life. No...'' He was pacing now, anything but normal in his ravings, and Erik felt the charged atmosphere, his madness bubbling like the beaker, just beneath the surface, barely mastered, ready to take over. ''It seems Marko has made me a murderer as well as a thief and a liar. So be it. SO BE IT. I will end them all. And then I will join them-''

Erik wasn't even aware that he'd made the move until it was over. The slap echoed loud in the cement room, Charles's head turned full to the side with the force of it, a red blush blooming where the palm had made contact. For a moment, nothing but the silence of shock and the aftermath of the impulse reigned. 

And then Erik had his say. ''You're being foolish. It's carrying you away, this fever of malice, and I have no doubt if you continue upon your current course you will join the dead, and might not take your targets with you! But it doesn't have to play out thus. Your sister...you blame yourself, and it's driving you to this distraction. But she knew what she was taking on when you showed up at her theater. You asked for aid, yes. But she agreed, and you do her dishonor, thinking of her as a victim when she was a willing and brave ally to you. There are people at fault, Charles, but you will never reach them thus, alone as you are and in such despair.''

The Illusionist, at last, surrendered his guise. His head bowed, his shoulders shook and this time would not stop. A great earthquake cracked the center of him, his eyes flooded over and his mouth opened in a silent scream of inexpressible, unknowable grief for Erik, who had never had a sibling. 

''I know not what to do, if not this. I see no other course.'' He whispered, low and broken. 

His movements were automatic. Perhaps a naturalist would call them instinct. Erik didn't care what drove them-he was just glad of their surety. Without comment, just when it looked as though Charles's legs would give out with the force of his pain, Erik lifted him, and hoisted him up over one shoulder like a sack of grain. With his free hand, he turned off the burner and poured the beaker's incriminating contents in a nearby cookie tin, which he shut tightly and slipped into the pocket of his waistcoat. Then, with the efficiency of a person who is often on the move, he scanned the mess around him for things of import, unearthing at last from the rubble on the table a small fortune in bank notes, certificates of identity and academia, a legal packet full of what looked to be tenancy agreements, and a well worn copy of _Flora Scotica_ by John Lightfoot. He stuffed all of the loose papers between the covers of the book and stowed the bundle under his arm, determined the rest of the room's contents to be expendable, and strode out into the world. 

If the undergraduates, the hansom cab driver, or the people he saw in the dim streets thought that it was a strange sight, a stone faced grown man carrying another, they did not give any overtly visible sign. Erik thought that his expression must be positively frightful, to elicit such studied indifference. The trip to his flat in White Chapel was passed in silence, and Charles, who was a perfect corpse now save for the steady stream of tears running down his cheeks, gave no resistance. Had Erik been a wiser man, he might have been alarmed that clearly this almost-stranger-yet-not was at the end of his rope, at a loss and now his responsibility. After all there was real, tangible danger lurking around the corners and in theater boxes for him, as had been tragically proven... 

But Erik was strangely unafraid. Charles's problem had become his now, he was involved and could not un-involve himself. This thought, for reasons he could not fully articulate, impassioned him. It exhilarated him like a schematic he could not immediately understand, and drove him to act. And that face...it was all he could do to stop himself from touching it, like a slack-jawed peasant at the Louvre reaching up to caress a Michelangelo. That face, sure as fire or cold or sumptuous furs, drove him to feeling. 

It was full dark by the time they arrived. He had the landlady heat up a bath, and while she filled the basin in the adjacent parlor, he made tea and coaxed the Illusionist out of his soiled garments. They conversed in movements, in nods and sips of the chamomile and their slowly warming fingers as they drank. At one point, Erik gave into his wish to reach out and touch the tears trailing down beatific cheekbones and pale planes of flesh dusted with freckles. He rested his forehead against Charles's as his own mother used to do when he was particularly grieved, and they sat like that a moment, as if this contact would give them the power to read each other’s minds. 

And when the parlor door shut, indicating the bath's readiness, Erik carried Charles there because that was what the night's forces and Charles's eyes told him to do. He placed him in the water gently, slowly, as a Mendicant places an icon on an alter, and stripped down himself to his breeches and shirtsleeves. 

He bathed him with his own oils and shaved him with his razor. These were phrases in the silent language. ''Be calm.'' Scrub down the flat, smooth chest with the sponge. ''You're safe.'' Stroke across the jaw with the sharpened blade. ''I'm here.'' The gentle stream of water from his cupped palms as he rinsed soap out of the Illusionist's hair. 

And when his wordless phrases were answered...when the couplet of Charles's lips opened and bestowed a kiss, and the kiss deepened into a rambling sonnet, and a small hand guided Erik's wrist down in the water to the pulsing center there, Erik responded in earnest, stroking Charles until he was no longer the living dead, but the living pure and simple, warm and kissing him and kissing him and thrusting up into his hand, and when the silent song reached it's crescendo, a truth rang out, a deafening overtone to Charles's shuddering rapture, to Erik's devastating and undeniable heart. 

''I love you.'' 

Who said it...maybe Erik, maybe Charles, maybe no one at all. And yet it was said just the same. 

Later, in the small hours, when the specter of madness was beaten back with their newly discovered harmony, they hatched their plan.

* * *


	4. PART FOUR: The Reckoning

**PART FOUR: THE RECKONING**

**Shaw House**  
 **London, England**  
 **January the 25th, 1812**  
 **Evening**

Emma Frost was reading the mail. Generally, she scorned most of her wifely duties as she scorned all things meant to box her in or blot her out, but this task she relished, and recognized as hers and hers alone. This task, after all, was what had raised her up out of the dusty Boomtown in Santa Fe and into all manner of high society; reading the mail, organizing things, sending messages, answering ''Yes sir, consider it done.'' 

She hadn't been Klaus's secretary for long. For starters, competition was thin. She was the only woman the strange Hanoverian prospector could find in his pile of applications, the rest of her community having dubbed gainful employment beyond the pale of a woman's place and potential. Her intelligence, skillful diplomacy, and good looks had taken care of the rest, leading her first into sin, and then to the marriage bed. 

In the five years that had followed, she experienced a series of surprises that were not really surprises, as she discovered who and what he really was, and helped him expand his influence. After all, hadn't she known, the first time he'd flashed that canine grin and winked in her direction, that he was a predator? 

Better to be predator than prey. That was the law of the universe. That was why Emma and Emma alone read all manner of correspondence that crossed the tin delivery plate.

Tonight however, she had to admit that the chore was tedious. She'd barely glanced at the tinder stack of answers to her advertisement for a new Lady's Maid, unable to stomach the painful naïveté, the broken English, the prim and proper hope that saturated each missive. Angel had fled like a coward the night after Asa's attack on the Royale, and was now under Simon Bolivar's protection, never leaving his side. Petty bankers and criminals her husband could deal with, but political figures like Simon were as yet out of his deadly reach. Since then, Emma had been dressing herself as she'd known to do all along, re-learning the eyelets and the ribbon ties and the hair techniques of her Western American toilette, not caring a wit if the styles flew in the face of current convention. To hell with all of them. What was she to anyone save Klaus but a brood mare or a mark for theft? 

Then there was the evening edition of The London Lark, this city's en vogue gossip rag, that detailed Charles Xavier's bothersome disappearance as well as Raven Xavier's tawdry, thrown together funeral, attended only by her half-crazed mother and her vulgar theater associates. At first she'd thought Asa had done his work on the brother, but he'd informed her that his search for the odious heir-turned-caper was still pending, the boy having mysteriously disappeared from his Oxford faculty some nights ago. 

Well, she had the Heart of Ice back. That was something at least. She skimmed the beauty advertisements in the Lark's margins half-heartedly, ruminating on how the value of a thing can multiply when it's absence also means wounded pride. She had to admit she had been truly stunned at the discovery of the burglary. It had taken her a good twenty minutes to work out who must have taken the necklace, and Klaus had furnished her with the Illusionist's motive. It wasn't so much the crime that stirred her anger as it was the fear Charles Xavier had caused her, first on that stage, and then later, when the depth of his deception had become known. 

/He will pay./ She thought calmly, for she was not afraid now. Sooner or later, the grubby professor would turn up on his dead-man-walking stepfather's doorstep or back at the university, and restitution would be made. Why, already Marko's fate had been decided, and would be carried out the moment the other man returned to England from his faux ''business trip'' no doubt made in haste and paid for on borrowed money. The pair of them then, Marko and Xavier, trying to cheat everyone; her coffers, her husband, and Death itself. Fools, the lot of them.

She turned her attention to the last letter at the bottom of the stack, addressed to Klaus and already opened. They had no secrets, and so she read it in hand, then paused, and began reading at the beginning again, once she realized that missive's import. 

_January the 23rd_  
Penned From The Worksite  
The Town of Middleton 

_Dear Mr. Schmidt,_

_I greet you from the ramparts of a revolution. A revolution in steel, that is. Mr. Blenkinshop and I have just put the finishing touches on the Salamanca locomotive, and we have the approval of British transit authorities to run tests on the tracks laid out from Middleton to Paddington this coming week. Should these tests prove successful, we have a team of Chinese indentureds ready to lay track at double speed across the entire region._

_As I'm sure you are aware by now, this expansion is being paid for by a partial subsidy from the Crown and a few generous investors from our mutual sphere of influence. I make no apologies for my poaching of them. As you are intimately aware, all is fair in the business of war. That said, I do not believe we must be enemies in the upcoming months. Though we differ in faith, we speak the universal language of opportunism, and deal in the common capital of monetary and political influence. Bluntly speaking, if you would condescend to let this Jew ship your guns for you, we would both make sums neither of us have previously imagined, and enough of cordiality between us, I'm sure, would follow._

_If my proposition interests you, do please make the journey to Middleton by Saturday next for our maiden voyage. Hell, bring your man Mr. Zell, if you wish. I confess a remorse for the nature of our last encounter. I'll put you both up at the Quicksilver hotel, and I am told there will be plenty of press. It would do us all good to be seen making nice before the journalists. In this uncertain time, Britain needs to know it's Captains of Industry are united despite ethnic differences._

_Sincerely,  
Erik Magnus Lehnsherr_

''What are you up to, my love?'' 

Emma jolted slightly in her seat at the sound of her husband's voice, and set the letter down. He'd always had a habit of treading silently as a cat, and it unnerved her in this large house. She turned her head slightly and arched her back as he set about massaging her shoulders from behind, and indicated the pile of correspondance. 

''Just catching up with it all. Do you want me to pen a refusal to that Jew hawker for you or is it already done? You must leave me with lists, I can't be guessing at your agenda all the time.'' 

Klaus laughed low in his chest and pinched her earlobe affectionately. ''Actually, I plan on making the trip.'' 

''You can't be serious?'' She all but sputtered, genuinely discomposed. She felt Klaus shrug. 

''I am! It's as he says, after all. Even the rats in the cellars have their function in this great big world of ours, eating the spiders, ferreting out weaknesses in bags of grain. And that letter was a veiled surrender if I ever read one. He needs my gentility, no doubt, to keep all those fickle investors from backing out. He needs my guns! Yes, I'll adopt the rat my love, and then he'll have to come to me for his grain soon enough.'' 

Emma frowned. ''You're jumping to a self-congratulatory conclusion.'' She was not usually so abrupt with him, for his pride was even more considerable than her own, but she felt it must be said. ''And you have a tendency to underestimate your enemies. Remember that cocaine dealer in Venezuela? We barely got away with our lives, all because you assumed he didn't understand German. We don't know this Erik from a hole in the wall, except that Asa's brothers in arms probably shot his entire family and he has good reason to resent us. You told me he could barely hold it together at the boxing club!'' 

Klaus tutted her in that way she hated and moved so that he was framed by the window, facing her. ''My love,'' he said, and put his hands out theatrically. ''He's a Jew! The only thing they understand is money, and he's not stupid. Sure he might have kept the gentry interested with his parlor tricks and inspiring speeches at the party, but in the cold light of day he's realizing they're never going to continue backing him without my weapons. I've cowed him, don't you see? Besides, even if I'm wrong...'' He reached forward and tipped her chin up so that she was looking into his eyes. She felt herself swell with desire for him, for the confidence that was the distilled nature of him, the elixir that justified the by-products of his arrogance and occasional misogyny. ''What have I to fear? _We_ are the ones to be feared, my love. We are the things that go bump in the night. I understand why recent events might cause you to forget this...but the Xavier girl learnt it before she died, and she won't be the last. Do have some faith in me.'' 

Emma hmmmd non-committally and looked away. ''That's another thing, Dear. You're rather overbooked of late. Shouldn't you and Asa be tracking down the errant targets?'' 

He waved this away. ''Time enough for that. They can't hide forever, and I have had it just today that Marko's gambling desperately and drinking himself half to death in Scotland. I have little doubt he'll just lose more money, so why not make back what he's squandered before his death knell tolls. Besides, I'm restless in London. Why don't you join me?'' 

A chill went down Emma's spine that she could not explain. Her refusal was out of her mouth before she could even really think it through. ''No dear you know I can't. I have much to do here, keeping an eye on the many pies you've fingered and sitting for visitors. Go and know that your home is fortified. But do write. Perhaps I'll meet you in Paddington.'' 

He assented to this, then left her alone. He was apt at sensing when she needed the time to be solitary. It made it all the sweeter, then, when she came to him that night in the master bedroom, and let a different need present itself.

* * *

 **Salamanca Work Site**  
 **The Town of Middleton**  
 **February 1st, 1812**  
 **Late Morning**

I do not know why I work for these foreigners. There is bounty work enough in Mother Russia. It is true, Schmidt pays me well, and until we met the Jew I was happy to do the cleaning up of his messes and his scaring of people. But that is all I had been before asked to do. Now we must make nice with this filthy merchant ebpeй. Schmidt is wooed with common Semitic witchcraft: the promise of gold. 

These men that I work for, they are too afraid of being poor. They depend on money like babies are depending on their mothers for milk. If the milk run out, they are helpless. They cry. Or they drag me back across a strange land covered in moss and make me to leave my dying father alone in Moscow, all so I can get their milk for them. 

Schmidt talked a lot in the carriage. About Emma, who I am to believing is much too good for him. About the Xavier boy, and all the ways I could maybe kill him. But mostly, he talked about the Jew-Erik, and how exciting it will be to see him grovel in person before his little train. I am thinking there will be no groveling. I am thinking there will be trouble. But Schmidt thinks I am having paranoia. ''Do not worrying, Asa. You sound like my wife, Asa!'' ну что ж .

We are at the building site now, waiting. Orientals are buzzing about, organizing large rods of metal, and the train is not little at all. I feel hate rip through me as I think that Erik will get the credit for this. That it was not a Russian that made this. We tried in Poland. Tried to blot them out, get the leadership, kill their women. But Schmidt is right when he is to talking about them like they are rats. Always hiding. Scurrying away. 

Like a giant gray rat, Erik squeezes out of the train in a charcoal suit, and waves. I am paid to be professional, and so I do not spit at his feet. I even take his hand when he offers. I am wearing gloves now, anyway. 

''Welcome, welcome.'' he smarms, and Schmidt smiles back. I am to thanking God I do not have the talent for this kind of deception. It would exhaust me. ''John and I are so glad you could make it. The post boy has informed me that there's a hoard of reporters waiting in Paddington, so we'll just ride in the dining car and talk business until we arrive.''

''Great, great.'' says Schmidt. I say nothing. Better to say nothing, and assess. ''I like a man that gets straight to the point. Is it just us, or will some of the investors be joining?'' 

Erik's face is strained now. Maybe Schmidt was right about the other men with money not wanting to buy a train with no firepower. He leads the way into the first car, and we follow. I take note, and see no booby traps or things of concern. And anyway that would be a foolish, wasteful way to misuse his new invention. Not when it is possible to kill a man with a quill pen, these days. 

''Afraid not. People seem rather busy. John would have come, but he's tending to a bit of trouble in the worker's camp. Of the two of us, he's the one with the personal touch. Now, shall we?'' 

The dining car is comfortable, but hideous, with large leather booths done up in ugly bright purple leather and shining silver metal. It is like being in a space flyer from Bulgarinn's fairy stories. I sit by the window, and try my best to ignore their pleasantries as the great hissing of the steam engine begins and we lurch into movement, the gray town sliding away through the glass. 

But their English is loud and annunciated and the schoolboy's side of my brain can't help but tune in and translate as they speak. 

''I must say Erik, it took daring to write me. I'm sure my reputation precedes me and I marvel that you did not fear the consequences.''

''Yes. The Jews call it ''hutzpah,'' but I'm sure your man Asa over there has taught you that.''

It will do no good to tease me, Rat. I want say this aloud, but force myself not to. Any rise out of me will be to his satisfaction. 

''Anyway it's clear that you saw the wisdom of my proposition. And feel how smooth this ride is, how fast we are already moving on the single coal engine! I think this calls for a toast.'' 

He reaches under the seat, and produces a small wicker basket, out of which he pulls three crystal glasses and a bottle of wine with a label scrawled in French, ''La Revanche.'' It is corked, and full, but still I shake my head, and grasp Schmidt's wrist as he reaches up to accept a glass. 

''Sir, I am not thinking this is a good idea.'' I say, flat, blunt, in Erik's presence. He knows what I am thinking of him. I will not put my employer's life on the line in the name of manners. 

To my surprise, they both laugh at me. It makes me feel small, and this I do not like. I find the rage that normally I must dig for at the surface of my thoughts, ready to come out and do harm. 

''Don't be so provincial, Asa!'' Schmidt says, and for a moment I see his murder as I see my own reflection each morning. I see his eyes plucked out of his head as I pluck the gray hairs out of my scalp. Routine. Easy. The only thing to do with them. ''We are here as Erik's guest, and even his people understand the sacred laws of hospitality, isn't that right, Erik?''

Erik smiles his rodent smile, too many sharp teeth, and uses a pocketknife to uncork the bottle. ''My mother did manage to teach me a thing or two before she passed. But if you're really that concerned, by all means, I'll drink first.'' 

He pours himself a generous glass, and I watch, hating him, as he downs it in one fell swig. There was no faking that, but he opens his filthy mouth wide anyway to show us how empty it is, then has the nerve to wink. ''I can feel my stomach seizing already. Now, shall we?''

He refills his own, then the remaining two, and offers them once more. I am tempted not to touch it still, but Schmidt gives me a look that says a great many imperative things, and his encouraging smile has an edge. ''Go on now, Asa. We've had conversations about politeness.'' 

Silently I acquiesce, clink rims with these two ridiculous farces, and take only the smallest of sips. Let that do me in if it can. A great many things have tried before. 

They begin to speak about numbers. About possible moonlight checkpoints between stations for weapons deposit, and how to influence the British government to allow immigrant members of their respective syndicates into the country to aid in operations. It is all things I have heard before. I am just hoping that Mrs. Frost is the one who will be doing the paperwork. She has an eye for detail that Schmidt misses, distracted as he is by his own cufflinks and this kind of salesmanship. At one point, Erik speaks about a woman named Magda Maximoff, and how she would make an excellent gun runner, how she could pretend to be with child while instead carrying gun powder underneath her skirts, and I want to be sick. Scurry, scurry, scurry. 

They argue over the milk jugs.

''30/70!'' 

''I'm sorry, you must be joking, Surely you meant ''20/80 with a full commission for each successful drop off. I'm not about counting my chickens before they hatch.'' 

Etcetera, etcetera. I am thinking of my father, and what he would think of me now. I am wondering if I should have spent more on his burial plot, put him closer to the church, and if I should give this all up and open the Inn in Kiev, like I've been meaning to do since before the gray hairs begin showing. It's odd...lately I am to having the desire to settle. That night on the scaffold, when it was my charge to kill Rapunzel, the Lady Mystique, I hesitated, just for an instant. I looked into that beautiful blonde child's green eyes, startled and fiery, and I thought ''What if I were to kidnap you and ravage you? What if you were to be my wife, and bare my children, and teach them how to speak as you speak, to lift their heads up proudly and flout these petty society rules?'' 

The thoughts so disturbed me that I lingered long enough to be seen, risking my freedom and my neck, just so that the image of her broken body and lifeless stare on the stage burned itself behind my eyes, and would remind me of what I am, and the path I chose. 

It is a long and tedious trip, and by the time the train grinds to a halt in a common wheat field outside of Paddington, the sun is fighting for mastery with the gray afternoon. I am beginning to feel ill. Always I am ill in transit; too many wheels in Britain now, moving too fast. My employer and the Jew have come to some sort of agreement, both looking pale and drawn with the effort of being civil, no doubt. 

''Ah, see? They've put up a blockade where the tracks halt. There must be two-dozen reporters out there! How exciting!'' Erik expounds and points out the window to where a small group of journalists have gathered behind a constable's line about 200 meters away. It will be a hike to get to them, the train apparently wishes to go no further, and my stomach is in knots, but I think of the vodka I will have in under an hour next to a hotel fire, and follow Schmidt and Erik out the train door. I notice they both struggle a little with the steps. Schmidt is to holding onto the ugly railing as if for his life, and Erik's right hand won't stop shaking as if stricken with a palsy. I have a half formed idea to tell these reporters the train is poor for health and too rapid. Wouldn't that be funny. Ha ha ha. 

We get half the field's length to the blockade, all of us pretending we don't feel terrible, when one of the reporters vaults over the ropes and comes running towards us parallel to the tracks. The aging and rotund constable tries to follow, but Erik shakes his head and yells that it's all right, apparently enamored with the young man's...what was it? Hutzpah? 

As if I weren't already nauseated enough. The reporter closes his distance, and I observe that he is an effeminate looking Chinaman, in high starched pants that accentuate downright womanly curves and purple suspenders biting into a dirty cotton shirt. He sports a thin, patchy goatee that I want to shave off on the spot, so insulting is it to the fashion, and a few strands of greasy black hair peak out from under a lumpy cap. He also has...what...ink? Paint? In triangles around his right eye, and I fight back the urge to ask after their significance. What do I really care, after all, if this dandy wants to draw attention to himself? It's probably a weird Oriental fashion trend—I feel as though I am seeing them before.

''Thanks so much fer lettin' me frough, sir! I'll be thuh envya theh news men by tomarra!'' He squawks cockney at the Jew, and I cringe as we all shake hands with him on the tracks, my arm leaden as I reach up to grasp the soot-stained palm not holding graphite pencils and a sketchbook. Second-generation mongrel, then. 

''Not at all, not at all,'' Erik responds, voice strained. ''You're fast on your feet there, boy. I'm Erik Lehnsherr, the chief engineer, and these are my business associates, Asa Zell and Klaus Schmidt. Now what can we give you to set you apart from the others?'' 

The Chinaman grins from ear to ear and brandishes his pencils. I cast a sidelong glance at Schmidt, looking for disdain or amusement, but he looks drawn and lost in thought. ''Well Imma sketch ahtist, and Oy'd lahve tah ge' a good scribble a you three standin' in front a tha train, like so.'' He reaches out and straightens Erik's limbs, then moves to adjust Shaw's tie. I give him a withering look and he leaves me be-I've always had the excellent posture. 

''I'm willing.'' Erik says. ''What about you two? Name to a face and all that?'' 

Schmidt shrugs and nods stiffly, and I allow my silence to stand for acquiescence. I'm so weary...pausing before the rest of the walk will do me good. 

''Splendid!“ Chirps the Chinaman. ''Now just stand tot'lly still, if ya please, fer just a few ticks, while I does the Rembrant loynes. No movin' at'all now!'' 

My head is swimming. I am like stone, and all I hear is the labored beating of my own heart as it pounds a painful rhythm into my head, the muffled consternation of the other reporters some distance away, and the scratching sound of the boy's pencils on his parchment. I just want to rest...

''Theah! All done.'' He says after what feels like an eternity. I hear it as if through cotton, and then this odd boy does the strangest thing. He bounds forward and throws his arms around Erik, and the Jew makes no resistance. In fact, he seems to smirk, but doesn't move to hug him back. They look into each other's eyes in the most intimate way, as if they share a confidence...

And then the Chinaman's knee comes up in the narrow space between them, too fast almost to be believing, and makes brutal contact with his gut. The reaction is immediate. Erik lurches forward and vomits down the front of the boy's shirt, a horrible, acrid bile spewing with each of his heaves out of his mouth, angry violet in color and streaked with blood. I start and attempt to step back-

And find that I cannot. I cannot so much as move a muscle in my little finger, though I put all of my will into the effort. Like a perverse statue, I am rooted to the spot on the tracks, able only to move my eyes frantically towards my employer, who has also not budged a muscle and is shifting his gaze wildly between me and the Jew, who is still bringing up horrible sick.

The Chinaman doesn't look disgusted. Nor does he appear surprised. He simply uses the drawing he just made to wipe the mess off of his shirt, and then throws his materials to the ground in order to help Erik steady himself. Dimly I see the crowd behind us, wooden toy people, shifting. Why, from this distance they probably can't ascertain what is happening clearly, and are confused...and then, with an awful lurch to my stomach and a fluttering of my heart, I am realizing. 

We are alone with the Jew and his _accomplice_ , too far to get help, but close enough to have witnesses. We are helpless, and Erik is throwing up the poison we all drank--the poison Schmidt and I cannot now purge. 

''Much obliged.'' Erik says once it looks as though his body is finished ejecting the cursed wine, then uses the Chinaman's shoulders for purchase to stand, wiping his mouth. He looks ghastly, skin paper white, veins in his temples plainly visible and hollow eyed, shaking all over—but ambulatory. I try again to move, using all the strength I have in me, all the will that I am possessing—and succeed only in opening my mouth, and raising my left hand three inches from my side to point at him. I try to yell-to accuse, to curse them in Russian, to call for the others-but all that comes out is the faintest of grunts. 

My throat is beginning to close. I can feel it. And Schmidt hasn't moved at all. 

''Well would ya look ther,'' says the Chinaman, voice higher and more feminine now, as if before he was putting on a lower cadence. ''Tha' one's trying tah wave. Steady on ther, mate. It's ovah, believe me. I had ya when I told yeh tah be still, it's taken hold in yeh nigh.'' 

Erik, seeming stronger by the second, locks eyes with me and appraises me coldly. ''Yes, he only had a little of Charles's augmented concoction. You should've trusted your instincts, Mr. Zell. Or studied French. Personally I'd be hard pressed to drink a wine dubbed ''The Revenge,'' not with all the blood you have on your hands.'' 

Filthy gutter rat dirty Jew I will to kill you it will not end for me this way I will choke you with my bare hands. 

The Chinaman paws at me, as if pantomiming trying to move me. Erik does the same with Schmidt, and I realize they're making it seem as though we are rooting ourselves to the spot, and they are trying to...trying to...

Trying to push us off the tracks. My God...the train. 

''You probably have a lot of questions right now.'' Erik drawls, waving his arms back over his head, pretending to exert all his force on Schmidt's chest, making the wooden marionette people, slow stupid useless people, churn more behind their stupid blockade. ''Why is this happening? How do they know each other?'' 

''How is the train movin.'' Chimes in the Chinaman, and as he pretends again to shove me, to drag me, I see through the cotton shirt to where his-her, breasts are bound, and I remember where I have seen her before.

''The Prince...'' I try to say. The steam engine of the looming locomotive hisses loudly as it's coals are stoked. What comes out of my mouth instead is ''P....Pri....'' 

The lady player catches on. ''Aw, how flatt'rin tah be recognized. Always did lahve playin' Rapunzel's Prince. All besotted love and fightin' witches. God wotch ovah Raven-I suppose I should thank ya fer offin' 'er cuz it's rising me up high at the theater. If I were like _you_ , I would thank ya...'' 

Breathing is now a titan's effort, and her angry face swims before me, triangle tattoos spinning stars, dancing in time to the rhythm of the steam engine, hissing and sputtering closer from behind. She grabs at the place between my legs and squeezes, and pain shoots up my lower back, seizes my abdomen and makes my legs tense in a cramp that would have me screaming if I could. 

''But I'm NOT like you.'' She hisses. ''And this is for me best friend, ya right bloody _bastard_.'' 

''Fare well.'' Erik says, and makes a little bow to my employer and I. 

The last thing I see are their treacherous backs as they run towards the reporters, yelling that we're mad, that we won't move, that the train is running on automatic clockwork-

Then steam. 

Red.

Black.

* * *

**Meanwhile...**

''Get out.''

''Not a chance, lady.'' 

''CARTER! NANCY!''

''They had the good sense to scram when they saw these.''

''So that's how you're going to do it, hmm? All those knives are a bit vulgar, don't you think?''

''Not as vulgar as what you and your husband did to Mystique.''

''My husband has money...I have jewels-''

''I don't want your jewels. Unless the skin you're trying to save is made of diamonds. If so-'' 

''Aaaahhh!'' 

''I'm a pretty sure I can cut you down to fencable size.''

* * *

  
**The London Lark**  
 **Sunday, February the 2nd, Afternoon Edition  
 **Railway Wreck!  
 **Investor Ignominiously Invites Own Doom On Train Tracks******

********

Yesterday evening the Salamanca locomotive made her infamous debut trip from Middleton station to Paddington-and christened herself in blood! Multiple witnesses report that foreign freight mogul Klaus Schmidt and an unknown associate refused to move from the tracks as the steam engine train bore down upon them. One witness, a teary-eyed apprentice journalist who was at the scene, had this to say:  
''It were the eeriest thing. We were barred from coming too close but we could all see the other two blokes-the engineer an' that Chinaman who'd jumped the ropes, trying to get them to move. They didn't move, didn't scream-nuffin!''  
Nothing indeed, as far as explanations are concerned! The chief engineer previously referred to, a Mr. Erik Lehnsherr, spoke with us at the boarding house in Paddington and expressed deep regret that he'd chosen to leave the train in order to stand for a portrait. ''Maybe if I'd stayed in the coal room, I could have stopped her in time.''  
Our investigators here at the London Lark smell something fishy about this whole to-do, especially since Schmidt's wife, Emma Frost, was found cut to ribbons in her London home only hours after her husband's apparent suicide. Was this some bizarre foreign suicide pact? Did Schmidt's well known arms connections become unhappy with the way he did business? Or was this crime somehow connected to The Lady Mystique's tragic slaughter just a week before? A Miss Angelica Salvadore, who sought us out in the West End, said that ''It is not a bad thing that they are gone. They were having many enemies. They were not the good people and London I am sure will be glad to be rid of them.'' Scotland Yard, it would seem, agrees. A report was filed for all three deaths but as they involved an actress and two eccentric immigrants, very little has been done to follow up. (ADDENDUM: After our morning edition, a Mr. John Blenkinshop, co-engineer of the Salamanca, communicated to us that the train prototype itself was very safe, so long as, quote, ''Bleedin' lunatics didn't stand where the wheels went.'' We here at the Lark can see how this might be so).

* * *

**Two Weeks Later**  
 **The Xavier Mansion**

Kurt was not a religious man, but when he saw the column about Schmidt's death, he got down on his knees in the Scottish pub and sent a slurred prayer up to God for his good fortune. Just to be safe, he waited another fortnight before retuning to the Paddington estate, following the half-hearted investigation of his late stepdaughter and confirming with two other sources that Schmidt's American wife was well and truly out of the way. He sent cursory correspondence to Sharon, making up yarns about ample investments and fishing trips with an old mariner buddy. (She did not respond as she usually did with simpering declarations of love and requests for this or that household item. She did not, in fact, respond at all, but he attributed this to one of her brandy binges and put it out of his mind). 

Charles too, he had utterly neglected in thought, so preoccupied was he over his problems with Schmidt. The dandy coward was probably hiding behind the frock coat of an actor, or perhaps had used some of the family money to go abroad. Many of these rakes did in order to support their odious habits, and that was just fine by him. The less he saw of the smug little upstart, the better it would be for everyone involved.

By the time his carriage rolled up the estate's driveway at dawn he had warmed so to the idea of Charles's imposed exile that he had almost convinced himself that it was fact. Which is why it was a true shock, when he entered his main parlor, to see the young master sitting in the chair he usually occupied, looking gaunt and positively grave. Flanking him on one side was a broad shouldered man who didn't look English but _did_ look as though he were barely restraining his own fury. The malice in his eyes as he gave Kurt a once over and clearly found him wanting could not be mistaken. Sharon sat in a smaller wing backed chair to the left, fully dressed, apparently sober...and not looking too pleased herself. 

Kurt took a step back, and planted his foot, ready for a fight—ready for anything. Before he could make a threat, Charles set aside his cup of coffee, and looked him dead in the eye—with almost the same resolve as the strong man on his right. 

''Welcome back, Kurt. I do apologize if the timing is inconvenient, but mother got word that you were returning last night, and there are things we must discuss.'' 

There it was again. That lah-dee-dah uptown accent. That smug disdain for self made men. It turned Kurt's shock into fury and gave him back his voice. ''What the hell is the meaning of this? I won't be ambushed in my own home—not by you or anyone else! MCCOY! Bring me my pistol!'' 

At this, the strong man took a step forward and began to reach behind him for something tucked in his waistband, merciless gaze resolved, but Charles put out a hand and held him back. All it took was the gentle, restraining touch on the man's abdomen and he paused, looking down at the Xavier heir with a question in his eyes that he dearly hoped had a different answer the next time Kurt provoked him. 

The whole scene was repulsive. ''So this is your creature, eh?'' He snarled, wondering silently where in the hell McCoy was with his weaponry. Panic turned his words to bile. ''Thomas the 2nd, put under your spell to do your bidding? I wonder, do you do the buggering now? Has Raven's death hardened you any or are you still the same nancy boy you were when you first took the back of my riding crop?'' 

''Don't you dare say my daughter's name.'' This had come from Sharon, who was sitting ramrod straight and sounding unusually lucid—unusually furious. His heartbeat quickened another few beats. ''I know I'm not the strongest person...'' She continued, sounding shakier now but still determined. ''I know that I was lonely after Brian died. And you did possess a few admirable qualities upon our marriage. But for a long time now I have known you are a fiend. I just...I just didn't...'' She began to cry, and Charles put a hand on top of hers, patting it. 

''It's okay, Mother. You don't have to-'' 

''No Charles, no. I'm responsible.'' She interrupted. Tears were streaming down her face, but she didn't seem to notice them as she stood up and approached Kurt, steps sure and unburdened by the effects of strong drink. ''What good is a mother who cannot protect her children? I admit, I was neglectful in this. I had had no practice, protecting my children from a father figure. What does a lioness do when the lion tries to eat her cubs? Well—this lioness is not making excuses, but she was frozen. She could not understand why you hated her son so, why her beautiful children did not move you with their ardent souls as they moved everyone else. Raven...God keep her, Raven moved all of London with the help of only a stage—until your bungling snuffed her out!'' 

So, Charles had told her then. The facts of the case only added to Kurt's bitterness. ''My bungling? Hah! That's rich! Why don't you ask your oh-so-perfect son about his part in all this. I don't suppose he told you what I had on him, hmm? I suppose he neglected to mention his deviant nature, his ever-growing disrespect, and his casual willingness to commit grand larceny, all to save his own pathetic skin-'' 

''No, Kurt.'' She snarled. ''He told me. My son may hear the call of Eros in men's voices, but he was not so dissipated, not so cowardly, as to continue to lie to me. He told me of your blackmail, your terrorizing of him and that poor foot soldier into desperate measures. He told me of Raven's attempt to help him, of the initial success—and then the discovery. He told me that if it were not for this man—'' she jabbed a finger in the larger man's direction, ''—who loves him, that he would be dead along with my daughter, and then he offered _me_ his very life in penance for Raven's stolen one.'' 

Kurt had to admit, it was shocking to hear those words in her voice. She was speaking of crime upon crime, corruption upon corruption, and she was not addled or shrinking away. On the contrary, the apparent revelation of all had distilled her into a force to be reckoned with, and for the first time, he saw the source of Charles's lordly disdain, of Raven's fire, of both their beauty. 

''I have forgiven my son.'' She continued, calmer now, and quieter. ''But I cannot forgive you, Kurt. I can no longer look the other way while you destroy my family. And so this will be resolved today.'' 

Kurt sneered. ''Oh will it, now? And just how do you propose to do that? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, little family of mine, but I am the head of this clan. You cannot coerce me into anything, nor am I really afraid of you, I don't care how large your new plaything is.'' 

The creature in question cracked his neck and chuckled. For the first time, he spoke. ''You should be.'' 

''Let me make this perfectly clear, Kurt.'' Charles rejoined, calm and unruffled as ever. ''If you do not consent to my proposal, then Erik will take your life. We have sent all the servants away and locked up the stables, as well as every door except the one from whence you entered. Erik has killed before with his bare hands, and he will do it again. And he'll get away with it, too. But that is not the way I prefer this to go.'' 

Marko was sweating under his shirtsleeves now, but he tried for bravado. ''Oh do tell little prince, how you would prefer it.'' 

''I, the offended party, demand satisfaction by way of a duel.'' Charles said evenly, and Kurt couldn't help it—he laughed. Raucously and cruelly, he laughed until some spittle stained his chin and his ribs hurt. 

''You? Duel me? Lord above, you could've saved us all this three act play and fallen on your own sword. I'll cut you to ribbons, and we both know it!'' For the first time in the conversation, he was feeling in his element. He advanced on Charles until he was looming over the youth with all the tension and confidence of pure hatred apparent in his stance. ''You're weak, Charles. Soft and silly. You are, in every way that matters, a feeble woman, and I will do to you what should be done to women who act up so.'' 

He could tell his words hit home. Sharon had dissolved into tears once more, clearly having reservations about the outcome even if her heart knew the proposal's justice, and Charles had begun to shake (though he did not look away). There was a long pause during which the heir apparently struggled to find his voice, but then he said, very quietly: ''Be that as it may. I am responsible as well. And I owe this to Raven. To myself. Now, name your terms.'' 

''Rapiers.'' Growled Kurt. ''At sunset under the willow tree in the common tenancy field. I'll let your bum friend be your second, because I don't like the way he looks at me and I'd like a shot at him, if I'm honest, man to man, after I've watered the crops with your blood. Sharon _darling_ , I do hope you'll do me the intense pleasure of acting as witness to this imminent slaughter, but if your sensibilities are too delicate, then the common peasantry will suffice I'm sure. I'll even write a note in my hand testifying to my consent in this circus sideshow, in case by some miracle you win. To tell you the truth, boy—''

He had not worn gloves and so could not throw one down. Instead, he spit at the heir’s feet. ''This is like Christmas and my birthday, all in one bleeding evening.'' 

With that he stalked out of the room to make his preparations.

* * *

 **Dusk, on the Field of Battle**

Anything one man can do, another can do. I am a son of the landed gentry. My _maitre d'armes_ always said I was naturally graceful and could hold my balance line. Erik said the same a week ago. I am just afraid because it is him. I knew he would choose rapiers—I was hoping he would. And we are using lanterns as well—I am in my element. 

He is the intruder here. 

I will not die tonight. Do you hear me Raven? You have to ad lib a bit longer up there, on your eternal stage, before seeing me applaud in the audience. 

My mother is crying again. She did not want me to do this. She said she would rather have me branded a coward and a sodomite than do this, because she knew in her heart something awful would happen. But I am through with being a creeping thing, skirting the edges of my own life. Erik, who I am learning quickly is a protector by nature, tried to convince me that I do not owe this man honor, and that he was the keeper of my honor now anyway, and would gladly dispatch him for me. And yet I am not what Kurt says—I am no shivering girl. My fate is my own fate. 

Night is coming fast. All of my tenants have turned out and made a circle in the barren land under the tree, marking the field of battle. Erik has filled my lantern and is polishing my sword, his face a tight-lipped mask of anxiety. He keeps uttering bits of disjointed advice in a monotone; things like ''keep your distance,'' and ''watch your footwork.'' I think this reassures him. I think this is his way of praying for me. 

Kurt did not name a second, and is standing a few yards off, grimacing, ready, and alone. Once the wick catches in the lantern, I take it from Erik, letting my hand linger on top of his hand, wishing with all my might that I could kiss him now. 

But such things are not done. Instead I say, quiet as velvet so that only he can hear, ''I love you more than I have ever loved anyone. Hold onto that like your lodestones, and let it guide you to peace if the worst occurs. Don't step in for me unless I stop breathing.'' 

Mr. Orwell, the baker, agreed to act as formal judge. His husky voice blurs together as he states the terms of the duel—A matter of vital honor, and to the death. As he speaks, my whole world pairs down to the weight of the sword and the twin beams of light—the lanterns in both our left hands. Kurt's murderous face. His powerful body clad like mine in closefitting sport breeches and shirtsleeves. Impossibly large...impossible, this is impossible, He has broken my body so many times before—

''EN GARDE!“ Mr. Orwell roars, and Kurt lunges. 

Easy enough to slip this clumsy opening. He's angry, it's making him sloppy. My heart is in my throat as I clear his rapier by half a foot and turn to close in for a double, but his arm flies up behind him and he parries on feel alone. Oh God he's so much better, so much stronger...

But I am faster. Quickly I disengage and get him in front of me again. Then I lunge low. I risk my left arm to hold the lantern up to the level of his eyes, but it pays off. I blind him momentarily, long enough to advance and cut his fighting arm with the tip of my blade. 

He bellows, more out of fury than pain, and swings his lantern violently, aiming for my head. I fall to the ground and roll but not before the bottom of the thing hits my ear, sending pain and heat ringing through my head-but his sword missed me. 

''I WONT STAND FOR YOUR SMOKE AND MIRRORS HERE, BOY!'' He yells, and before I can stand again he kicks me in the shoulder. I feel the lantern quaking under the weight of pain as I strive to keep it off the ground and in my line of sight. I barely manage to parry his relentless frontal assault as I stand again—his thrusts are infinite and he's getting too close. 

It's no use. If we keep this up too long he'll exhaust me until I make a mistake. There's only one solution. 

I maintain my line but keep him dangerously in range of my vital points, parrying with lightning speed, waiting for the opening and keeping the lantern high. Somewhere distantly I can hear Erik shouting at me that I'm a fool, that I need to use my speed and step back. And when Kurt's blade hits home a full inch into my thigh, lancing pain through the muscle there and staining my breeches red, I'm inclined to agree. 

But then Kurt falters, as I knew he would, the clumsy curator of rage that he is, and I slide the full length of my sword into the lattice of his hilt and _twist_. 

He is disarmed. 

Pure shock etches his face as I shift most of my weight to the uninjured leg and hold my sword right to his neck. 

''Leave forever and I will spare your life.'' I say before I even know that I will, realizing I mean the words, realizing that I simply cannot slit an unarmed man's throat. 

He opens his mouth and lets out an animal sound, low and guttural, positively terrifying.

Then he jumps back and throws his lantern square at me. 

It makes contact with my chest and shatters, and suddenly I am on my back with the force of it, my whole front engulfed in flames. 

Lord no, not like this, not like this. 

I scream and roll, ignoring the heat and the broken glass biting into my flesh at all angles, knowing that if these oil fed flames spread that I am done for. I roll and roll and roll, my screams mingling with Erik and Sharon's screams and Kurt's hellish bellowing, and by the time the flames are out I have lost my sword in the grass and he is on me, beating me savagely with the lantern. 

There is only pain. Blind pain and darkness and the sound of something at the base of my spine cracking like an egg on a stone hearth. Still, I roll one last time, my broken body lurching unnaturally as I strive to face death head on. Through the lurid impressionist's painting of my watering eyes I see the stars, and Kurt's resolve to finish it. 

''God forgive me...'' I say as he comes down with the lantern again on my ribs, cracking them so that my whole body convulses and attempts to protect my core. I want to tuck my arms across my chest and make myself a ball, but only succeed in flapping them like sickly snow angel wings in the grass—

Across the hilt of my dropped sword. 

Lord above...I just need to...I just need to grasp it....

''Have any last words, Boy?'' Kurt snarls. He's looking dead at me and not at my floundering arm as it finds the hilt's center and squeezes despite a warm, burning agony all throughout my chest and ribs.

''Yes.'' I croak. ''But you won't get to hear them.'' 

This confuses him and he scoffs, spitting directly on my face before his arm swings back with the lantern, charting a course straight for my head. 

I sit up.

I see white light.  
I feel the heat of the blood down my chin as I cough.  
I swing my sword arm up out of the grass, wild and blind, and when it hits something, I push deep, putting all my strength into pushing out, through, into making him stop. 

The lantern never comes for me again. 

When sight returns, he is dead in a pool of his own blood. I can see his foot if I strain my neck, and my sword sticking up out of his chest. 

But I can't sit up again. I can barely breathe. The world swirls but I try to stay awake, knowing in some deep part of me that if I let myself rest now, the rest will be eternal. 

I'm so cold. Even when Erik pulls me into his lap and encloses me in his arms, composure be damned, I am so cold. He's crying now too, large and unabashed tears streaming down his beautiful face. 

''Don't cry, Magneto...'' I whisper. He's saying something though...what is he saying...

''Wait... to a surgeon...move you myself it might make things worse you're bleeding out...''

Surgeon. Yes...I must...

I try to get up. 

I try again.

I can't feel my legs. 

_I can't feel my legs._

* * *

**Epilogue**

**Five Years Later**  
 **Berlin**

The foundry district had exploded. What began as a few recently dug alleys and the ramshackle guild house had turned into a veritable city within a city, tall brick buildings filled with activity climbing from cellar to sky. The women know they live in guild territory because of all the purple. The deep plum stamp of Lehnsherr Inc, a hammer and the six pointed star, dyes every foundry carriage, every stall, every anvil. 

Mr. Lehnsherr never did like to beat around the bush, and all the neighbors know it. He is straightforward about his faith, and tenacious as ever about his growing enterprise. All the papers proclaim him Berlin's chief captain of industry—that or they use his affectionate nickname, The Railroad Spike. He is sure of purpose, ruthless in business, and passionate in argument. 

And anyone with two eyes in their head knows that that's not all he's passionate about. 

At first, the women thought the British boy was just a houseguest. Or maybe an invalid relative Erik took in out of the goodness of his heart. They were inclined to like the handsome engineer, and so they weaved sweet little stories about the unassuming goy in the clockwork wheelchair who Erik never let out of his sight. They watched them do the grocery shopping at market every Friday, speaking English and Polish by turns as they discussed the most ordinary things. It seemed, thought the women, that they spoke of everything except their chief concern, which was when was Erik going to settle down already, and marry one of their granddaughters.

But then the whitewasher's ladder slipped on Danenburg street, and he caught a glimpse of them through the back window. What he saw was spread around by evening, and it was acutely understood throughout the neighborhood that Erik would never marry. 

Still, gossiped the women after the initial shock wore off, and they communed by the well after Sabbath: Was it such a sin? Sure the rabbis thumped their big books about it and it could never be said aloud, but they'd rather have that sort of devil in their midst than the drunks, the toughs, and the rapists that tormented their younger relatives day in and day out. Besides, did Erik ever flaunt himself? Did he not comport himself with dignity and attend all community gatherings? Indeed, did he not fund half of these events, and see to it that none of the widows starved, and that the orphans at the Free School had presents at Hannukah? 

''The fact of the matter is'', said one of their eldest that very first Saturday they discussed it, ''They aren't hurting anybody, and we're very lucky to have such a patron.'' Her manner was so sure and her position among them so well regarded that this judgment was considered the final word. And after all, this was Berlin, where no one had to look too far to find an oddity. 

Gradually, they came to know the goy, and even called him by his Christian name, especially after he began picking up Yiddish. He was quick on the draw at that, and had a way of finding something that you two had in common throughout the course of a conversation, no matter how unlikely. At first, you could find him in the guild headquarters sitting by the foundry on his ungainly metal throne, discussing with any idle fellow different smelting practices, new chemical compounds for steel, and the possible environmental effects, of all things, that this or that locomotive project would have on the surrounding forests. It didn't take a detective, the women thought gravely, to see that Charles was bored. 

But Erik, who was always concerned with Charles's happiness, took him to the Free School one day to meet the children. And if there's one thing that is true about today's Berlin, it's that Charles Xavier has taught without pay at that school every morning from that day to this, filling in gaps it's modest endowment couldn't hope to cover and acting as a veritable magnet for lost children ages eight to eighteen wherever he goes. 

You could say (and indeed the more sentimental among them have often enough) that Erik is the Railroad Spike, and Charles is the track that grounds him. 

This comforts them. After all, unlike everything else in their midst, it shows no sign of changing. 

THE END


End file.
